Chapter 2
The Flame
“Did you find a dress you liked, darling?” My dad asked, directing his question at me as he sliced into his lamb chop.
“You’d need to ask Mum,” I responded, barely looking up from my dinner.
“Me?” my mother said with a false tinkling laugh. “It’s your dress. I merely offered… suggestions.”
Luca: Might I suggest that your mother goes and fucks herself?
I smothered a laugh, tightening my lips to the point of pain and biting down on my inner cheeks. I had the phone propped up on my knee under the table, and was enjoying Luca’s commentary on our dinner antics.
I don’t know what that said about me that I felt more comfortable with this stranger than my own family, but that’s the shift my relationships had taken. My parents no longer represented comfort and security, and Luca no longer felt like the stranger he once was.
Truthfully, he hadn’t felt like a stranger since that first text asking why I was crying.
“Let the girl pick her own dress, Sophie,” my dad said with a hearty chuckle.
Luca: Yeah, let her pick her own dress, Sophie. It’s the least you can do considering she didn’t get to pick her own man.
“I never said she couldn’t pick her own dress,” she replied, looking offended. “I simply advised her not to pick certain ones.”
“You advised me not to pick them all apart from the one you liked,” I said, shooting my dad a discreet little smile.
Every time the engagement had been mentioned, he always looked…
shifty. Never quite meeting my eyes. But tonight, he was in an exceptional mood.
So much so that he even shot me a small wink in return, and I felt myself sitting up straighter, preening under his attention.
Pathetic.
“Can I help it if fashion is simply dying as of late?” she replied, rolling her eyes at me.
“Speaking of late,” a playful voice called from the hallway, followed by the tall figure of my big brother entering the family room. “I hope I’m not in too much trouble, Mummy?” he teased our mother, placing a kiss on her cheek and winking in my direction.
Dress conversation forgotten. Thank you, Marco.
“Oh, you!” she laughed, swatting at his arm. “Where have you been lately? I feel like we don’t see enough of you!”
“Houses to sell, women to fuck. It’s a hard life,” he replied with a grin, earning himself a squeal from Mum and another laugh from Dad.
“Little sister, looking as twatish as ever,” Marco said, taking his seat next to me and ruffling my hair. It didn’t escape my notice that Frank stepped closer to me at the interaction, and I saw my father discreetly dismiss him with a wave of his hand.
Frank did back up a couple of steps, but he remained closer to me than he had been, and it had been on the tip of my tongue to ask my scowling dad about it.
But then my attention was distracted by Marco and I forgot the weird interaction altogether.
I wielded my fork like a weapon, stabbing it into the top of his hand as he reached for some of my food.
“Acting as twatish as ever as well,” he mumbled, pulling his hand back and rubbing the bruise.
“You don’t mess with a woman and her food, Marco,” I replied back. “Get yourself to the kitchen and request your own.”
He scoffed under his breath, and I rolled my eyes as I caught his cocky grin.
Not a second later, the cook came rushing into the dining room, apologising profusely for having not made Marco a meal—as though it was his fault Marco came and went as he pleased, and as though he was expected to have something prepared daily, on the off-chance Marco was going to grace us with his presence.
“How did the deal go with the Mayfair property?” my dad asked, his eyes glued to Marco. There was an undercurrent of tension, as though my dad was expecting the worst. But Marco puffed his chest, pride replacing all irritation he felt towards me.
“Like a dream. They practically snapped my hand off. Twenty-five over the asking price, and thirty upfront.”
“That’s my boy!” Dad beamed. “I knew you had it in you! He’s a chip off the old block, isn’t he, Frank?”
“Never doubted him for a second, sir.”
“Hang on—what are we celebrating here? Twenty-five and thirty, what?” I asked.
“Percent, little sister. Sweet, sweet percent. And my commission.”
“You earned twenty-five percent commission on a house in Mayfair?” I gasped, mentally calculating how much that one sale had earned him.
Whilst I was happy that Marco was finding his feet in the world, and that our dad had taken him under his expert wing—after all, he had one of the largest, if not the largest, real estate company in the country—I couldn’t help but feel jealous.
Marco already had more money than he knew what to do with. And though I didn’t go without, thanks to the generous allowance I received, I still resented him being able to do what he wanted with the money he had earned.
My money came monthly from Daddy’s credit card, and purchases had to be approved.
And, before I could stop myself, I couldn’t help but think I wouldn’t be in this position if I was able to earn a living. I would never be able to live as lavishly as my parents, but I could be comfortable.
My life would be my own.
But that was never going to happen. Marco got opportunities. I got an engagement ring. That was the way our lives worked.
Luca: Money isn’t everything, little ember.
My thoughts exactly.
“We’re so proud of you, sweetheart,” my mother said to Marco, her eyes softening towards her favourite child.
“And what have you done today to make the parents proud?” Marco asked mockingly, spinning in his chair to face me, resting his hand on his chin, his eyes wide and dancing with humour.
“Oh, me?” I asked, biting a carrot off my fork and acting nonchalant. “I picked a dress.”
“A dress?!” he gasped. “Goodness. And did it solve world hunger?”
“Are you donating your twenty-five percent to the starving children, brother dearest?”
“Oh, of course,” he said earnestly, placing his hand over his heart. “As soon as the banks open, I’ll be writing that cheque.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I bit back, stabbing at my food.
“I thought your mother picked the dress?” My dad asked with some confusion, his eyes bouncing between the three of us.
I internally groaned, dropping my eyes to my phone.
Luca: Hard to believe he runs a multi-million-pound empire, isn’t it?
Isabelle: You leave him alone. He’s business savvy. Social interactions aren’t his strong suit.
Luca: You can say that again. Either that, or he’s wilfully ignorant of what’s going off around him. Especially as far as you’re concerned.
“We picked together,” I finally settled on saying.
“You will look stunning, sweetheart,” my mother purred, finally able to take the scorn out of her voice now that I was agreeing with her. “Adrien won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Lucky me.
“I didn’t realise it was such an important dress. Is the engagement party still going ahead, then?” Marco asked, pouring himself a large glass of wine.
I watched his movements, feeling as though I was missing out on something. He looked at my dad for a brief moment, and I caught my dad discreetly shaking his head.
“Of course. Isabelle is very excited,” our mother replied.
“I’m sure she is,” Marco muttered, sitting back in his chair and casting me one quick, concerning glance before his face transformed back into the joker.
Conversation flowed naturally from there.
Marco detailed some of the other houses he had either shown or was in the process of selling, Dad discussed a new venture he was entering the business into, and Mum discussed her new jewellery designs, which had been commissioned for some American fashion show.
Truthfully, it all went over my head. I always had the feeling that they told me enough to make me feel like I was a member of this family, but never enough that I could incriminate them in a court of law.
Which was a weird thought to have, because I never got the impression that they were doing anything illegal—maybe slightly shady with their inflated prices, earning a whopping commission for doing very little—but certainly not illegal.
Yet the thought lingered anyway, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
And then, of course, conversation steered back to my upcoming nuptials.
“I’m sure Mr Vescari will set a date when he’s ready. He’s a very busy man,” my mother announced, her tone lofty, as though she were in some sort of cahoots with the elusive Mr I-Cant-Find-My-Own-Woman Vescari.
“He said the end of summer, Sophie. You know this.”
“When men say the end of summer, it means something very different to them than it does to us, eh Isabelle?” she replied with a laugh, winking at me like we were sharing a small joke.
“I don’t see the harm in waiting,” Marco said. “Isabelle is still young. If you’re going to force her into this charade, I don’t see why—”
“Nobody is forcing her into anything!” our dad snapped, banging his fist on the table.
“We have been over and over this. Isabelle knows she can say no. She knows she doesn’t have to do it.
But she also knows how happy me and your mother are.
She knows she’s doing something that will cement this family in history. So stop with the fucking nonsense!”
He slammed his fist on the table again, making the glasses of wine spill slightly. Marco and I bowed our heads, and I bit down on my inner cheek to stop myself from laughing.
An awkward silence fell over the table until Mum cleared her throat and tried to talk over the stillness.
“Have you given any thought to flowers, Isabelle?”
“Yes, I have,” I replied, nodding earnestly.
“Wonderful!” she clapped her hands together. “And what were you thinking?”
“That there should be some.”
Marco burst out laughing next to me, but quickly covered it with a cough.
“Isabelle, that isn’t helpful.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mum. I just don’t care,” I shrugged.
“What about the song for your first dance? You must have thought about that.”
“Might I suggest Don’t Stand So Close to Me?” Marco grinned.
“Marco Carbone, you stop that this instant!” Mum snapped. Marco looked at me, winking quickly, and then shovelled a forkful of food into his mouth.
Luca: Young Girl by Gary Puckett is a good option.
Isabelle: Stop it.
But I added a laughing emoji.
Luca: What? It’s even from his generation as well. He might appreciate the throwback.
“Honestly, Mum. I really don’t mind. You know me, and I trust your taste. You make the decisions.”
“Good answer. I trust your taste impeccably, Mrs Carbone,” a pleasant voice called from the hallway, chilling my blood immediately.
A moment later, our second surprise guest of the evening made his way into the dining room.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. I told your guards I could find my own way.”
And there he stood in the flesh.
Adrien Vescari.
Luca: Isabelle, get out now!
“I thought it time I met my fiancé in person.”
Shit.