Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lily
Damiano is driving us to his family’s estate.
The car ride is quiet…too quiet. His jaw is tight as he stares out at the road, one hand gripping the wheel, the other clenched on the gear shift like it’s the sole thing anchoring him. The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife.
I steal a glance at him, but his expression is unreadable. Distant, distracted.
He’s been like this for days, vanishing for long hours, returning late, barely speaking. I should be used to the walls he builds, but tonight they feel colder than usual.
I keep my hands folded in my lap, pretending I’m not unraveling inside.
Then, out of nowhere, he breaks the silence. “You’ll pose as my fiancée.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t look at me. “You’ll pretend we’re engaged in front of my mother.” The words are cold, calculated. Like it’s a business arrangement and I’m merely another pawn on his chessboard.
My stomach twists. “Wait,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You want me to lie to your mother?”
His silence is answer enough. A horrible thought begins to settle in my gut, icy and sharp.
“Oh my God. You’re ashamed,” I whisper. “You’re ashamed to introduce me as your mistress.
” He flinches, but doesn’t deny it. His jaw tics and he exhales sharply, clearly frustrated, but doesn’t look my way.
Shame floods me, hot, raw and suffocating.
I turn toward the window, my reflection barely visible in the glass.
Daria’s voice echoes in my mind, cruel and familiar.
‘You will always be the whore your mother was.’
I swallow the lump in my throat, blinking hard. I won’t cry. Not now, not in front of him.
“I see,” I murmur. My voice sounds small, hollow.
“Goddamnit.” He swears under his breath. “It’s not what you think.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t it?” He looks at me then, sharp and annoyed, but I can see something else under it too. Guilt… Maybe even regret.
“She’s been trying to marry me off for years,” he says, voice tight. “Throwing every spoiled heiress in Italy at my feet. If she thinks we’re engaged, she’ll back off.”
“I get it,” I manage to choke out.
Breathe…in…out…
He gives me a sideways look and I clench my fists so tight my nails dig painfully into my palm to keep from breaking apart. “I’ll do it,” I say, willing my voice to sound strong and resolute. “But after this, you owe me.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t get to ask to leave me.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “Then let me spend time with Chiara.”
His grip tightens on the wheel. He doesn’t speak for a few seconds, then he nods curtly. “Deal.”
I look back out the window, heart hammering, throat tight, the storm inside me barely restrained. The rest of the drive passes in a tense silence and I wonder why he even bothered to bring me with him. But if he wants a performance, he will get the best damn show this city has to offer.
We arrive at the mansion and he parks his car in front of the entrance.
The mansion is massive and resembles more a Tuscan manor than a villa in the outskirts of Boston, complete with stone columns, ochre brick walls and huge glass windows.
I’ve never seen it in daylight before, and despite myself, I fall a little in love with it.
Damiano rounds the car to open my door and offers his hand. I take it, and he slides an arm around my shoulders, guiding me toward the wide double doors like we’ve done this a hundred times, like we belong to each other.
A woman is waiting in the doorway, her smile so radiant it nearly knocks the breath out of me. “Mi figlio!” she exclaims, arms already outstretched.
I blink. This is his mother? She is…stunning.
Petite and glowing with a warmth that has no business belonging to a woman related to Damiano.
Where he is all dark edges and broodiness, she is sunshine and ease.
Her golden-blonde hair is pinned up elegantly, and I can’t believe she could possibly be over forty.
“Mother,” Damiano says, releasing me to step into her arms and press a kiss to the top of her head. “And this,” he says, glancing back at me, “is Lily. My fiancée.”
My heart stutters. It feels strange to hear him say it so naturally. So convincingly, like he believes it.
“Hello, Mrs. Santaluccia. It’s an honor to meet you,” I say, extending a cautious hand.
“Oh no, none of that.” She laughs, dismissing the gesture and pulling me into a warm, maternal hug that smells like citrus and roses. “Call me Sophia. The pleasure is all mine, tesoro. You’re even lovelier than I imagined. Come, come inside.”
She loops her arm through mine with a kind of familiarity that leaves me blinking in surprise, and just like that, we’re swept into the house, Damiano trailing behind us in silence.
Sophia leads us through the elegant, sun-drenched rooms like she’s hosting royalty.
We settle in an outdoor lounge where soft light spills over the terrace and the air smells like lemon blossoms. Damiano sits beside me on a plush sofa, his arm draped over the backrest behind me, fingers occasionally brushing my neck like a subtle claim.
Sophia takes the seat opposite us, her eyes gleaming. “What will you drink, Lily?” she asks. “I’m having an Aperol spritz, but we have everything. I’ve stocked the best Italian vermouth, too, if it’s what you prefer.”
“Aperol sounds wonderful, thank you,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice light. Damiano requests a whiskey, neat.
She motions with her hand and a butler appears like magic, disappearing again with our orders.
Then Sophia leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement. “Now tell me, how did you two meet?”
My mind blanks.
Shit. We never went over our story.
“I, um…sort of stumbled into him at a gala,” I say, hoping that will be enough.
“She captivated me,” Damiano says, his voice low and smooth. “The moment I saw her, I knew she was going to be mine.”
Geez, he didn’t need to lay it on so thick. Heat crawls up my neck.
Sophia claps her hands together like she’s watching her favorite romantic comedy unfold. “Oh! Love at first sight, così romantico!”
I smile weakly and take a sip of my drink to hide the guilt clawing up my throat. She is so sweet. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to.
Then her gaze falls to my bare hand. “Where is your ring?” she asks, frowning as she looks at Damiano. “Figlio mio, I raised you better than that!”
I nearly choke on my drink. Before he can speak, I jump in. “He gave me the most beautiful diamond ring when he proposed in my favorite restaurant,” I say quickly. “Unfortunately, it kept falling off so I had to bring it in to get it resized.”
Damiano doesn’t miss a beat. “In fact, amore,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, “I picked it up from the jeweler this morning.”
He produces a small black velvet box. My breath catches as he opens it and takes out a ring.
I don’t even have time to react before he gently takes my hand and slides it onto my finger.
It fits perfectly. Sophia takes my hand and looks approvingly at the ring.
Only when she releases my hand do I dare take a peek at it.
It is a rose-gold band with diamonds set all around and a big central diamond. It is beautiful.
“Why…th-thank you, darling.” I whisper, hoping my smile looks sincere and convincing.
He lifts my hand and brushes a kiss to my knuckles. “Anything for you, amore mio.”
Damn, he’s good.
I am too stunned to speak. Too aware of Sophia’s approving smile, too shaken by how effortlessly he plays the part. The worst part is…he almost makes me believe it, too.
He keeps my hand in his, stroking his thumb over the ring absentmindedly like it belongs there. Like I belong there. Dinner is announced and we rise, Sophia beaming as she chats about the menu. Damiano takes my hand again as we walk to the dining room, his touch steady and warm.
I smile, I laugh at the right times and I play the role. But deep down, the guilt gnaws at me. Sophia is kind. She believes in love. And I’m lying straight to her face.
We settle at the table, the early tension slowly melting away under the glow of candlelight and the subtle clinking of silverware. Sophia, ever the perfect hostess, turns to me with a soft, curious smile. “Tell me about your family, Lily.”
I give her the polished version, the one that sounds respectable, safe.
The truth is messy, and I can’t bear the thought of lying to this woman who radiates warmth like the sun.
But I do it anyway, hating myself a little more with every smile she offers in return.
She listens intently, nodding, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand like she already sees me as one of her own.
Guilt coils in my stomach like barbed wire.
Then I gently shift the attention away from myself. “What about you, Sophia? You mentioned you are from Florence?”
Her face lights up with nostalgia. “Yes, I grew up there. I still live there because I can’t part with my roots, the pace of life, the food, the sun. My sister still lives there too, with her son, Lorenzo. He’s about Damiano’s age.”
“Oh?” I raise a brow. “Is Lorenzo as…intense as Damiano?”
She lets out a melodic laugh, rich and warm. “Not at all! Lorenzo is a dreamer. Carefree, romantic, always finding new ways to avoid responsibility.”
I glance at Damiano, who is sitting beside me with a face carved from stone. I grin. “So…seeing how sweet and open you are, are we sure Damiano isn’t adopted?”
Damiano shoots me a dark, warning glare that would send most people running. I meet it with an innocent smile, kicking him lightly under the table.
Sophia giggles, covering her mouth. “Oh, tesoro, you have no idea how many times I’ve asked myself the same question!”
“Mother,” Damiano mutters, reaching for his glass with a raised brow.
“No, no,” she says, grinning as she affectionately pats his hand.
“As unbelievable as it may seem, mi figlio is mine. He took after his father, the same dark hair, the same serious eyes. And the same tendency to hide his feelings under a mountain of scowls.” Her voice softens as she speaks.
“But more than that, Damiano had to grow up faster than most boys. Too fast.” A flicker of pain ghosts across her face.
Whatever happened, it carved its mark on both of them. A lump forms in my throat.
Trying to lift the heaviness, I ask gently, “How was he as a kid?”
Her face brightens again, the shadows fading.
“Oh, he was adorable,” she gushes. “He was the kind of little boy who stood up to older kids when they bullied others. Fiercely loyal, always bringing home strays, cats, dogs, even a turtle once. He was protective of everyone. And when he wasn’t trying to fix the world, he was always trying to help me.
He was so serious sometimes it broke my heart. But he’s always been good.”
She looks at him then, pride written all over her face. And my heart clenches painfully. What wouldn’t I give to have someone look at me like that?
Beside me, Damiano seems to sense the change in my mood. He grabs my hand beneath the table, fingers threading through mine with quiet insistence. Then, he clears his throat and shoots his mother a mock-glare. “Mother, you’re destroying years of hard-earned reputation.”
Sophia bursts into laughter. “Ah, scusa, figlio mio, but your fiancée deserves to know what she’s getting into.”
“I already do,” I say, and squeeze his hand back.
We all laugh, and the rest of the evening unfolds like a warm, comforting dream filled with food, laughter and just enough wine to blur the sharp edges of all the lies we’re balancing on. And for a brief moment, it feels real.
* * * *
Hours later, we are driving back to his condo, the silence between us stretching thin and fragile like glass. I lean my head against the window and exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Your mother is…really sweet,” I murmur.
“She is,” he agrees, glancing at me. “You did good.”
I smile faintly, eyes on the ring still glittering on my finger. “Not as good as you. You were obviously well-prepared.” I slip the ring off and hold it out to him, the diamond catching the light from the street lamps as we pass. “Here.”
But he doesn’t take it. His jaw tightens, and his eyes stay fixed on the road ahead. “Keep it. You’ll need it later.”
The weight of those words settles over me like a shiver. “How long is your mother staying in the country?”
Damiano shrugs one shoulder. “Who knows? She comes when she wants and goes when she’s bored.”
So, more dinners. More pretending. More lies. I nod silently and slip it back on my finger, feeling like the fraud I am.
By the time we reach the condo, I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally. I don’t even know what part of tonight was real anymore. He escorts me to the elevator in silence, his hand warm at the small of my back, a gesture that makes my heart ache in ways I wish it didn’t.
At the door, he pauses. “I’ll be back later,” he says, already pulling his phone from his pocket.
“Two men will be at the door, and one in the lobby. If you need anything, call me.” He leans down, brushes his lips over mine, then he’s gone, his scent, his warmth, his presence disappearing as quickly as it came.
And I am alone again.
The walls of the condo feel bigger at night, the silence more oppressive. I curl up on the couch and stare at the city lights through the windows. My thoughts spiral.
Is he meeting someone?
The rumors echo through my mind…whispers of beautiful women always on his arm, none staying long. He never holds on to anyone—that is what they say. Maybe I am another placeholder and he is already losing interest.
I tell myself that it shouldn’t matter. That it’s better this way.
But then why does it feel like something inside me is breaking?
I crawl into bed long after midnight, exhausted and hollowed out.
At some point in the night, the mattress dips behind me and the familiar heat of his body slides in next to mine.
Wordlessly, he wraps an arm around me and pulls me close, anchoring me to him in the dark.
I don’t say anything. Neither does he as he brushes feather-light kisses over my shoulder.
In the morning, he’s gone again, leaving only memories like a lingering dream.