Chapter 2 - “Oh, this is interesting.”
“Isabella,” Luca warned mildly.
She held up both hands.
“I’m saying nothing.”
Which, judging by her expression, meant she knew considerably more than she intended to share.
By eleven thirty, the gala was winding down.
Margaret delivered a warm closing speech, thanking donors and describing the families the foundation hoped to support.
When she mentioned the Queens learning center, I noticed Celeste looking toward me from another table.
She smiled.
I smiled back.
For the first time that evening, I felt as though I had attended something meaningful rather than simply accompanying someone important.
Outside, the September air was cool.
Our sedan waited beneath the hotel awning.
Luca opened the door for me.
I slid inside, carefully gathering the fabric of my gown.
He joined me a moment later.
The driver pulled away.
For several blocks, neither of us spoke.
Manhattan moved past the windows in glittering fragments.
Restaurants were closing.
Couples walked beneath streetlights.
A delivery cyclist waited at a red light, tapping his fingers against the handlebars.
I slipped off my heels.
Luca noticed.
“Uncomfortable?”
“Beautiful shoes are frequently terrible companions.”
“Then why wear them?”
“Because I’m capable of making questionable decisions.”
His mouth curved.
“Apparently, we have something in common.”
I turned toward him.
“That sounds suspiciously like a confession.”
He looked out the window.
“Perhaps it is.”
Silence settled again.
Then he said, “I owe you an apology.”
I stared.
“For what?”
“For bringing you tonight under the assumption that I understood what you wanted.”
“You asked me to be your date.
I agreed.”
“Yes.
But I treated it like an arrangement that would simplify my evening.”
“And it didn’t?”
“No.”
I laughed.
“I’m sorry to have been inconvenient.”
“You weren’t.”
He turned toward me.
“You were the most interesting person in that room.”
My laughter faded.
Luca seemed almost surprised by his own words.
Then he continued.
“Margaret knew about your work.
Celeste wanted your opinion.
Half the people I speak with regularly discovered tonight that you’re someone worth knowing.”
I looked down at my hands.
“That sounds like a criticism of your acquaintances.”
“It’s a criticism of me.”
I slowly raised my eyes.
He held my gaze.
“I should have noticed sooner.”
There was something difficult about receiving an apology you hadn’t realized you wanted.
For three years, I had told myself I preferred being indispensable without being visible.
I liked solving problems.
I liked knowing I could make complicated days easier.
And I had been genuinely proud of my work.
But somewhere along the way, I had stopped asking whether the life I was building was the life I had originally imagined.
Luca’s words touched that quiet uncertainty.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded.
Then, after a moment, he asked, “Would you consider attending Sunday dinner with my family?”
I turned toward him.
“Sunday dinner?”
“My mother is visiting.
Isabella will be there.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like you to come.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Is this another arrangement?”
“No.”
“Another public appearance?”
“No.”
“Will there be diamonds?”
“Absolutely not.”
I smiled.
“That’s reassuring.”
He waited.
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I said, “I’ll think about it.”
He nodded.
“Fair enough.”
And for some reason, his willingness to accept that answer made me want to say yes.
The following morning, I arrived at the office at eight fifteen.
My feet still ached.
My hair refused to cooperate.
And my phone contained six messages from people I had met at the gala.
Celeste wanted to discuss the learning center.
Margaret had sent a thoughtful thank-you.
Isabella had invited me to coffee.
Daniel Mercer had forwarded an article about community development with a note saying he thought I would find it interesting.
Ethan had written a simple message.
It was lovely seeing you again.
I hope your morning is less formal than last night.
I smiled at that one.
Then I opened my work email.
There were seventy-three unread messages.
Reality had returned.
At eight twenty-nine, Luca appeared.
He stopped at my desk.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr.
Moretti.”
He frowned slightly.
“Mr.
Moretti?”
“We’re at work.”
“Right.”
He looked as though he wanted to say something else.
Instead, he placed a paper bag on my desk.
I opened it.
Inside was a warm blueberry muffin and a cup of tea.
Not coffee.
Tea.
My favorite.
I looked up.
“What’s this?”
“Breakfast.”
“I can see that.”
“You mentioned yesterday that you sometimes forget to eat before the morning meetings.”
I stared at him.
“I mentioned that while we were waiting for the photographer.”
“I remember.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
Then I smiled.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and entered his office.
I watched the door close.
A blueberry muffin.
A cup of tea.
Two ordinary things.
And somehow, they unsettled me more than the diamonds ever had.
By Wednesday, I had almost convinced myself the gala was simply an unusual evening.
Almost.
Luca still worked long hours.
He still expected carefully prepared briefing materials.
He still frowned at unnecessary meetings and asked questions that made department heads reach for their notes.
But something had changed.
He began asking for my opinion before making certain decisions.
Not just about scheduling.
About substance.
When a proposal arrived concerning the foundation’s learning center, he asked me to review it.
I noticed that the community-access section contained no practical plan for evening classes.
I pointed it out.
He listened.
Then he asked me to join the next planning call.
I hesitated.
“Luca, I’m not part of the development team.”
“You understand the problem.”
“That doesn’t make me qualified to lead it.”
“I didn’t ask you to lead it.
I asked you to contribute.”
That distinction mattered.
So I agreed.
Later that afternoon, Celeste called.
We spent twenty minutes discussing the proposed center.
She asked thoughtful questions about my ideas, and I found myself speaking with more enthusiasm than I had felt in months.
Afterward, I sat staring at my phone.
The familiar office sounds continued around me.
Printers hummed.
Elevators opened.
Someone laughed near the conference rooms.
But I felt as though a door had opened somewhere inside my life.
One I had forgotten existed.
At six, Luca emerged from his office.
“You’re still here.”
“So are you.”
“I’m leaving.”
I looked up in surprise.
“Before seven?”
“Apparently, people occasionally do that.”
“Should I notify the press?”
He smiled.
Then he glanced at the folder on my desk.
“The learning center?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
I hesitated.
“About the proposal?”
“About the work.”
I considered the question.
“I think I’ve missed this.”
“Missed what?”
“Working on something where I can see how it changes people’s lives.”
He nodded slowly.
“Did you ever consider doing it professionally?”
I looked at him.
“A long time ago.”
“What happened?”
I closed the folder.
“My father got sick during my final year of college.
I had planned to apply to graduate programs in urban planning, but my family needed help.
I found a job, then another one, and eventually I came here.”
“Is your father all right now?”
“He is.
Mostly retired.
He and my mother live in Connecticut.”
Luca was quiet.
“Do they still have the bookstore?”
I stared at him.
“How did you know about the bookstore?”
“You mentioned it once.
During your interview.”
Three years earlier.
I had almost forgotten that conversation.
“It closed two years ago,” I said.
“The rent became too expensive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Dad says he misses the customers more than the books.”
“That sounds like him.”
I smiled faintly.
“You don’t know him.”
“No,” Luca said.
“But I think I’d like to.”
I looked down at the folder.
Something warm and unexpected moved through me.
Then I remembered where we were.
My office.
His company.
A relationship that had begun as a performance.
I needed to be careful with my own heart.
“Good night, Luca.”
He seemed to understand the gentle boundary.
“Good night, Sophia.”
On Thursday evening, Isabella Moretti called me.
Not about a car service.
Not about her brother’s schedule.
About coffee.
“I’m near your office,” she said.
“Would you have twenty minutes?”
I hesitated.
“Does Luca know you’re calling?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s reassuring.”
She laughed.
“Come downstairs.
I promise not to ask anything embarrassing.”
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting across from her in a small café on Madison Avenue.
She ordered a cappuccino.
I ordered tea.
For a while, we talked about ordinary things.
Her work in architectural preservation.
Her apartment in Boston.
The challenges of restoring old buildings without erasing what made them special.
She was funny, thoughtful, and far less intimidating than her brother.
Then she set down her cup.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being kind to Luca.”
I looked at her.
“I’m his secretary.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She smiled faintly.
“My brother has spent a very long time believing that being responsible for everyone means he must never need anything himself.”
I considered her words.
“He doesn’t seem particularly interested in needing people.”
“He isn’t.”
She paused.
“Our father died when Luca was twenty-eight.
The company was struggling.
I was still in school, and our mother was trying to understand a life she hadn’t expected to live.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She turned her cup slowly between her hands.
“Luca decided that everything was his responsibility.
The business.
The family.
Every decision.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“It was.
But it also became a habit.”
She looked at me.
“Sometimes I think he forgot that people can care about him without expecting him to solve something.”
I thought about the gala.
About Luca stopping before placing his hand on my waist.
About the way he had accepted my answers.
About the blueberry muffin.
“He’s trying,” I said quietly.
Isabella smiled.
“I know.”
Then she reached into her bag.
“I actually wanted to show you something.”
She placed a photograph on the table.
It showed a small storefront with green-painted windows and a hand-lettered sign.
I leaned forward.
My breath caught.
“Bennett Books?”
Isabella nodded.
“My architectural preservation group has been researching neighborhood businesses that disappeared during redevelopment.
Your father’s bookstore came up.”
I picked up the photograph carefully.
The store looked exactly as I remembered it.
The green door.
The little brass bell.
The narrow window where my father displayed books selected by neighborhood children.
I could almost smell the paper and coffee.
“Where did you get this?”
“An archive in Brooklyn.
There are several photographs and some old interviews.”
My throat tightened.
“Dad would love these.”
“I thought so.”
She hesitated.
“Actually, there’s something else.”
I looked up.
“Something else?”
“The building is still there.”
“I know.
It’s been empty since the bookstore closed.”
“Not anymore.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Isabella drew a slow breath.
“There’s a proposal to restore it.”
I stared at her.
“Restore it for what?”
“A community reading room and educational space.”
The café seemed suddenly very quiet.
“Who submitted the proposal?”
Isabella looked uncomfortable.
“That’s complicated.”
“Isabella.”
She sighed.
“Luca’s company owns the building.”
I sat completely still.
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“My father rented that space from a private landlord.”
“The property changed hands after the bookstore closed.
Moretti Holdings acquired it through a subsidiary.”
I looked down at the photograph.
Then back at her.
“Why didn’t I know?”
“I don’t think Luca knows you don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
Isabella hesitated.
Then she said something that made my heart begin to beat faster.
“Sophia, the restoration proposal was approved months ago.”
I stared at her.
“Months?”
“Yes.”
“Who approved it?”
She met my eyes.
“My brother.”
I barely remembered the journey home.
I sat by the window of the train, Isabella’s photograph tucked inside my handbag, trying to organize my thoughts.
Moretti Holdings owned my father’s former bookstore.
Luca had approved a restoration proposal.
And somehow, I had known nothing about either development.
I wanted to believe it was coincidence.
The company owned properties throughout New York.
May you like
Its real-estate division managed hundreds of transactions.
Luca could not possibly remember every building.
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