Chapter 8
We returned to the ballroom at half past nine. The guests had settled into the rhythm of a party that had survived its surprise.
Rosina was speaking intently to a cluster of older relatives, her expression suggesting she was already planning how to spin the evening’s events. Valyria sat at the head of the table, her cane hooked over the arm of her chair, her eyes tracking us as we entered.
Serena was not at the table. I found her near the terrace doors, holding a glass of wine and looking out at the garden. She turned when I approached.
“You did not plan this,” she said.
“No.”
“That is what makes it real.” She smiled. “I was not in love with him either. I was in love with the idea of a man who would kneel to loosen his mother’s shoe. But that man was already in love with someone else. I knew it the night of the gala.”
“I am sorry.”
” Do not be. You gave me a way out of this without losing my dignity. That is more than most women get.”
She touched my arm once and walked back into the room.
The party continued. Dancing began. I stood at the edge of the floor, watching the couples move under the chandeliers, and I felt the shape of the evening settling around me like a coat that did not quite fit yet.
Dante found me at the edge of the dance floor. He did not ask. He held out his hand.
“I do not know how to dance,” I said.
“Neither do I. We will learn together.”
He led me onto the floor. He placed one hand on my waist. He held my other hand in his. We moved slowly, imperfectly, surrounded by people who had been trained to dance since childhood and were too polite to stare.
“You are thinking too much,” he said.
“That is my profession.”
“Your profession is over. You are fired.”
“You cannot fire me. I am the only matchmaker who knows how much sugar you take in your coffee.”
“I take it black.”
“Exactly. You needed help.”
He pulled me closer. “I still need help. Every day. For the rest of my life.”
“You are asking a lot.”
“I am asking everything.”
I looked up at him. The ballroom moved around us — the music, the lights, the murmured conversations of people who would talk about this night for years. But the space between us was quiet. It was the quietest place I had ever stood.
“Yes.”
[FINAL IMAGE]
The party ended at half past midnight. The last guests departed. The staff began clearing the tables. Valyria kissed me on both cheeks, held my face in her hands for a long moment, and said nothing at all. Then she walked slowly toward the stairs, leaning on her cane, her back straight.
Dante walked me to the front door. A car was waiting in the drive. The night was cold and clear, the stars visible above the iron gates.
“I will see you tomorrow,” he said.
“I have appointments.”
“Cancel them.”
“I cannot.”
“You can. You are the boss.”
I looked at him. The man who had entered my office sixty days ago with a blank check and a dead mother’s unfinished sentence. The man who had repaired my radiator, brought me soup, and learned to say “what do you need” instead of “I will fix it.” The man who had dismantled a rival’s plan in the time it took me to write a report, and had still waited for me to choose him.
“What did your mother mean to say?” I asked. “That night. In the hospital. Resta — what was the second word?”
Dante looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, very softly, “Resta con me.”
Stay with me.
May you like
I did not answer with words. I stepped forward and kissed him. The cold air, the iron gates, the stars — none of it mattered. Only the word. Only the answer I gave him without needing to say it aloud.
I stayed.
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