Chapter 2 - “Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why me?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because you know how I work when no one is watching.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
He continued before I could find an answer.
“You know which decisions I delay, which ones I regret, and which ones I pretend not to care about.
You’ve seen me lose my temper in meetings and apologize afterward.
You’ve stayed late when the rest of the office left.
You’ve told me when I was wrong.”
“Several times.”
“More than several.”
“You’re making me sound indispensable.”
“You are.”
The words were simple.
They should not have affected me as much as they did.
He looked back toward the ballroom.
“I didn’t bring you because you’re convenient, Sophia.”
I had not realized how badly I needed to hear that.
Before I could respond, the terrace doors opened.
Ethan stepped outside carrying two glasses of sparkling water.
“I thought you might prefer this to champagne,” he said, offering one to me.
“You mentioned you had an early morning.”
I accepted it.
“Thank you.”
Luca’s expression changed by a degree.
Ethan leaned against the railing beside me.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Luca said.
“No,” I said at the same time.
Ethan glanced between us.
“Excellent.
I’ve arrived at the perfect moment.”
I hid a smile behind my glass.
For the next few minutes, the conversation remained easy.
Ethan spoke about a project his company was developing in Queens, a mixed-use building with apartments above community offices and a small arts center.
He described it with an enthusiasm that made the numbers feel less important than the people who would use the space.
“You actually care about the neighborhood?”
I asked.
“My mother grew up there.
She still lives three blocks from the site.”
“That explains the community offices.”
“She insists every new building should leave room for the people who were already there.”
“Your mother sounds sensible.”
“She is.
She also believes I’m too serious, which is why she’s been trying to set me up with every unmarried woman in Manhattan.”
“Have any of them survived dinner?”
“None.”
Luca’s mouth twitched.
Ethan noticed.
“You’re smiling, Moretti.”
“I’m not.”
“You should try it more often.”
“I’ll consider it.”
When Ethan was called back inside by a colleague, he turned to me.
“I still owe you that second dance.”
“I remember.”
His eyes moved briefly to Luca.
“Good night, Sophia.”
“Good night.”
After he left, Luca remained quiet.
“You don’t like him,” I said.
“I don’t know him.”
“You dislike the possibility of him.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
He took a breath.
“He seems decent.”
“High praise.”
“He also seems interested in you.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“No.”
“Then why are you acting as if I’ve breached company policy?”
His gaze dropped to the water glass in my hand.
“Because I’m trying to remember that this is pretend.”
The city seemed to grow quieter around us.
I held his eyes.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is.”
“Then you should have no problem watching me dance with someone else.”
“I didn’t say I had a problem.”
“You didn’t have to.”
For once, he didn’t defend himself.
That silence told me more than an argument would have.
The terrace doors opened again, and a woman in a silver gown stepped outside.
She was in her early sixties, elegant and composed, with silver hair swept into a smooth knot.
“Luca,” she said.
“There you are.”
His shoulders changed subtly.
Not tensed.
Not relaxed.
Prepared.
“Mrs.
Bellamy.”
The woman’s gaze moved to me.
Her expression sharpened with recognition.
“And you must be Sophia Bennett.”
I placed my glass on the railing.
“Yes.”
Mrs.
Bellamy studied me for a moment too long to be casual.
“Your father was Thomas Bennett.”
The words struck with such precision that I forgot to breathe.
Luca turned toward her.
“Evelyn—”
“Yes,” I said.
“He was.”
“My husband spoke highly of him.”
“I didn’t know they knew each other.”
“They worked together for nearly a decade.”
Evelyn’s gaze moved briefly to Luca.
“At least, that’s what I was told.”
A chill moved through me despite the mild night air.
“My father worked in commercial construction,” I said.
“He had several clients.
Moretti Holdings was one of them, years ago.”
“Before Luca took over.”
“Before I was born, actually.”
“Your father left the firm rather abruptly.”
I looked at Luca.
He was no longer watching me.
His attention was fixed on Evelyn, and something in his face warned me that he knew more than he had said.
“My father said he wanted to start his own company,” I replied.
“That was the official explanation.”
“Mrs.
Bellamy,” Luca said quietly.
She ignored the warning.
“My husband kept a file of correspondence from those years.
Most of it concerned the Harbor Street redevelopment.”
I knew the name.
My father had mentioned Harbor Street only once, when I was a child.
He had been standing in the kitchen with his tie loosened, staring at an old newspaper clipping.
When I asked what it was, he had folded the paper and told me some projects were better left finished.
Evelyn continued, “There was a dispute over the foundation’s contribution to the redevelopment.
Thomas refused to approve certain changes.”
“Changes to what?”
“The community center design.”
My pulse quickened.
My father had designed a community center?
I had known he worked on buildings, but I had never seen the plans.
After his company failed during a difficult economic period, he had stopped discussing his work altogether.
“What did he refuse to approve?”
I asked.
Evelyn’s expression softened.
“I don’t know the details.
My husband handled the business side.
But I remember Thomas saying that a promise made to the neighborhood mattered more than a profitable contract.”
Luca finally looked at me.
There was no surprise in his expression.
Only regret.
“You knew,” I said.
“Sophia—”
“You knew my father worked for the foundation.”
“I knew his name.”
“That isn’t what she said.”
“I wasn’t aware of the entire history.”
Evelyn looked between us, suddenly uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry.
I assumed—”
“Assumed what?”
I asked.
“That Luca had told you.”
The night seemed to tilt.
Luca stepped closer, but stopped before touching me.
“I should have told you.”
“When?”
“I was trying to understand the records first.”
“What records?”
He reached inside his jacket and removed a slim envelope.
It was cream-colored, worn at the edges, and sealed with a strip of dark green wax.
My name was written across the front in handwriting I recognized immediately.
My father’s.
I stared at the envelope.
For several seconds, the only sound was music drifting from the ballroom through the open doors.
“Where did you get that?”
I whispered.
Luca held it out, but did not force it into my hand.
“It was found in the Moretti archives this morning.”
“Why is my name on it?”
“I don’t know.”
The handwriting blurred in front of me.
My father had been gone for six years, and I had not seen his writing since the last birthday card he sent before his hands began to shake.
Evelyn’s voice was gentle.
“Perhaps you should open it somewhere private.”
I reached for the envelope.
Luca’s fingers brushed mine, then withdrew.
The seal had already been broken once and carefully pressed closed again.
I looked up at him.
“You opened it.”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
His expression tightened.
“I don’t know.”
I turned the envelope over.
On the back, beneath the broken seal, was a faint impression in blue ink.
Moretti Holdings.
And beneath it, in a smaller line:
For Luca, when he is old enough to choose differently.
My heart began to pound.
Luca saw the words at the same moment I did.
His face went completely still.
“What does that mean?”
I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Luca.”
He looked at the envelope, then at me.
“My father died eighteen years ago,” he said quietly.
“And he never spoke about Thomas Bennett after the Harbor Street project.”
I held the letter between us.
“Then why did your father leave a message for you inside something addressed to me?”
Luca’s eyes met mine, and for the first time since I had known him, he looked genuinely uncertain.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Inside the ballroom, the music began another song.
Neither of us moved.
Then I saw a second line beneath my father’s handwriting, almost hidden beneath the fold.
A date.
Tomorrow’s date.
May you like
And beneath it, four words that made Luca reach for the envelope at last:
Ask Sophia what she remembers.
