2. Ariah
— ? —
Ariah
Donna Rosaria Grimaldi arrives at eleven the next morning with the force of a weather system and a woman I’ve never seen before on her arm.
I’m in the living room with the twins, engaged in intense negotiations about crayon sharing - Lucy’s position being that sharing is unnecessary when you’ve established clear territorial boundaries, Luca’s position being that Lucy has all the good colors and he’s been oppressed - when Rosa appears in the doorway with that particular expression she reserves for announcing my mother-in-law’s presence.
“The Signora is here,” Rosa says, which is how she always announces Rosaria because Rosa has been with this household for fifteen years and has developed her own system of subtle resistance. “With a guest.”
Before she can say more, Luca tugs at her sleeve. “Rosa, can I have the crackers? The safe ones?”
“Of course, piccolo. I’ll fetch them.” Rosa disappears toward the kitchen, where we keep Luca’s approved snacks in a dedicated cabinet - everything nut-free, everything checked and double-checked.
His allergy kit sits on the kitchen counter where it always sits when we’re home, the prescribed epinephrine ready in case of emergency.
She returns with a small container of rice crackers, the brand we’ve all memorized.
“These are your crackers, yes? Only these.”
“Only these,” Luca confirms solemnly. It’s a ritual we’ve practiced since he was old enough to understand: some foods are safe, some foods are dangerous, and we always, always check.
“Thank you, Rosa. Could you…”
But Rosaria is already sweeping in, because Donna Rosaria Grimaldi has never waited to be announced in her life.
She’s dressed impeccably, as always, in that particular shade of cream that only very wealthy Italian women of a certain age seem able to pull off.
Her silver hair is sculpted into submission, and her face wears the expression of gracious condescension that I’ve come to understand is simply how she looks at me.
“Ariah, darling.” She kisses the air near my cheeks - close enough to perform affection, far enough to avoid actually touching. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” We both know I’m lying. This is how we communicate. “We were just discussing color theory.”
“Color theory?”
“Crayons, Nonna,” Lucy supplies, not looking up from her drawing. “Luca wants my purple.”
“It’s not your purple,” Luca protests. “It’s the purple. From the box. The shared box.”
“My box.”
“Mama said…”
“Children.” Rosaria’s voice is pleasant and absolutely frigid. “Perhaps you could continue your discussion elsewhere while the adults talk.”
Both twins go still in a way that makes something tighten in my chest. They don’t do that with me - that sudden freezing, that careful silence. They do it with her. Every time.
“Actually,” I say, keeping my voice light, “I wanted to introduce them to your guest. Children should learn social graces early, don’t you think?”
I watch the flash of irritation in Rosaria’s eyes, quickly masked. She steps aside to reveal the woman behind her, and something in my chest goes tight.
“This is Serena Salerno. Serena, my daughter-in-law, Ariah.”
The name is new to me - I’d never heard of her before Pietro mentioned her yesterday.
But I looked her up last night, scrolling through society pages and charity galas and children’s hospital fundraisers.
Serena Salerno, patron of the arts, friend to underprivileged youth, her face always perfectly positioned beside sick children and grateful families.
The kind of public philanthropy that looks wonderful in photographs.
Serena Salerno is exactly what I expected and somehow worse.
She’s beautiful in the way that Italian women born to money are beautiful - dark hair that falls in perfect waves, skin that glows with the specific luminosity of excellent genes and better products, clothes that fit like they were made for her body because they probably were.
She’s younger than me by a few years, maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine, and when she smiles at me there’s something in her eyes that makes me think of a cat watching a bird through glass.
“Ariah.” She takes my hands in both of hers, warm and immediate, like we’re old friends. “I’ve heard so much about you. Pietro speaks of you constantly.”
No he doesn’t, I think. I would know if he did.
“All good things, I hope.” My voice comes out pleasant and empty, even to my own ears.
“The best things.” She’s still holding my hands, still smiling that cat smile. “I understand you used to design jewelry? Before?”
Before. Such a small word to contain so much. Before the merger, before the marriage, before I stopped being Ariah Emery and became Ariah Emery-Grimaldi, hyphenated into someone else’s life.
“I did. I founded Maison d’Emery.”
“Oh, I know! Such charming work - very distinctive.” She says it the way you’d compliment a child’s finger painting. “Rosaria was just telling me how wonderful it is that you’ve been able to focus on the children now. Family is so important, isn’t it?”
I want to say that I didn’t choose to focus on the children instead of my work.
That the choice was made for me in a hundred small ways over six years, every creative meeting I wasn’t invited to, every design credit that went to the team instead of to me, every time someone referred to my work as part of Grimaldi Holdings instead of as mine.
I want to say that running a design house and raising twins aren’t mutually exclusive unless your mother-in-law actively works to make them so.
But I don’t say any of that, because Donna Rosaria is watching me with that particular gleam that means she’s waiting for me to slip up, to be the American who doesn’t understand Italian social graces, to prove she was right all along about her son marrying beneath him.
“It is,” I say instead. “Important. Family.” I turn to the twins. “Luca, Lucy, this is Signorina Salerno. She’s going to be working with Papa on the new launch.”
“Hello,” Lucy says, without looking up from her drawing. Her thumb has found its way back into her mouth - a habit we’ve been trying to break, but she only does it when she’s anxious.
Luca, blessed with either less social awareness or more courage, studies Serena with frank interest. “I don’t like your necklace,” he announces.
Oh, my sweet, tactless child.
Serena’s hand goes to her throat, where an ostentatious diamond pendant rests. “No?”
“It’s too shiny. And the stones look cold.” He returns to his crayons, the matter clearly settled. “Mama’s jewelry is better. She makes things that look like they have stories in them.”
I should probably correct him. Teach him about diplomacy, about saying nice things to guests, about the pleasant falsehoods that will serve him well in the world he’s been born into. But honestly? I want to buy him a pony.
“Children,” Rosaria says with a thin smile. “So honest.”
“So… direct,” Serena agrees, and there’s an edge under her laugh that makes me look at her more carefully.
She’s looking at Luca the way you’d look at something unpleasant you’ve stepped in. She’s trying to hide it, and she’s good at hiding it, but I spent six years learning to read people who say one thing and mean another. I know what I’m seeing.
“Luca, Lucy, why don’t you go find Rosa and show her your drawings?
” I keep my voice light, but Lucy is already sliding off her chair, already sensing something is wrong.
She takes her brother’s hand and they slip out together, and I notice how Lucy positions herself between Luca and Serena as they pass, her small body a shield.
My children don’t like her. My children, who have never met her before, have taken one look at Serena Salerno and decided she’s not safe.
Children know. They always know.
“Please, sit.” I gesture toward the sofa. “Can I have Rosa bring some coffee?”
“That would be lovely.” Rosaria settles herself like a queen taking her throne, and Serena arranges herself beside her, all graceful limbs and practiced poise.
“We can’t stay long - so much to do before the launch - but I wanted to make sure you two connected.
You’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other over the coming weeks. ”
“Will we?”
“Of course. Serena will be co-fronting the launch with Pietro, as I’m sure he told you. It’s such a wonderful opportunity for everyone. The Salerno name carries weight in certain circles, and combined with Grimaldi resources…” She waves a hand, diamonds flashing. “A perfect partnership.”
Partnership. The word lands like a small, precise blow.
“Pietro mentioned it yesterday,” I say evenly. “I’m looking forward to seeing how everything comes together.”
“You’re so supportive.” Serena leans forward, all warmth and confidentiality. “Rosaria told me how much you’ve sacrificed for the family. Giving up your career, your company - it can’t have been easy.”
“I didn’t give up my company.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “It merged. There’s a difference.”
Something flickers in Serena’s eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Like she’s caught exactly the reaction she was fishing for.
“Of course,” she says smoothly. “A merger. How silly of me.”
Rosa brings the coffee, bless her, and I busy myself with pouring and arranging cups while my hands remember how to stop shaking.
We make conversation that says nothing while meaning everything.
Rosaria drops careful mentions of how much time Pietro and Serena will be spending together.
How natural they look in photographs. How their mothers always thought they’d end up together, years ago, before life took them in different directions.
“Such a shame, how things work out sometimes,” Rosaria says, watching me over the rim of her cup. “But fate has a way of correcting course, don’t you think?”
“I think people make their own choices,” I say. “Fate is just the story we tell afterward.”