His father, Antonio Romano, was seventy, stern and proud, a man who had come to the country with nothing and had built hotels with his hands, a man who believed that a promise made to a business partner was sacred, and that breaking an engagement to Vivian Cross would not only ruin a deal, it would ruin the family's name, and he had told Luca, many times, in his office, with the door closed, "You will marry Vivian. You will do your duty. You will not embarrass this family. You will not throw away everything I built for a girl who serves tables." Luca had listened, and he had nodded, and he had gone home, and he had held Mia, and he had promised her, again and again, that he would tell his father, that he would break the engagement, that he would choose her, and each time, he had meant it, and each time, he had failed to do it, because fear, when it has been practised for a lifetime, is harder to break than any promise, and because he was afraid, not only of his father's anger, but of his father's disappointment, and because disappointment, from a man like Antonio, felt, to Luca, like losing his father all over again, like losing the only family he had, and he did not know how to bear that loss, and so he had kept the secret, and the secret had grown, and the baby had grown, and Mia had grown more afraid, and Luca had grown more ashamed, and the shame had become a weight he carried everywhere, even into ballrooms, even into dinners, even into rooms where he was supposed to be happy.
Vivian had not always been cruel, and she had not always been a woman who humiliated servants in front of guests. She had grown up in a house where she was loved, but not seen, where her father praised her beauty and her manners, but never asked her what she wanted, where her mother taught her to smile, to dress well, to marry well, and to never, ever, make a scene, and Vivian had learned those lessons so well that she had become a perfect fiancée, a perfect hostess, a perfect daughter, and she had told herself, for years, that perfection was enough, that being chosen was enough, that being engaged to Luca Romano was enough, even if Luca did not love her, even if he looked at her with politeness instead of passion, even if he was always, somehow, elsewhere, thinking about someone else, someone she could not name. She had noticed Mia long before the dinner, noticed the way Luca's eyes followed her when she served, noticed the way Mia's hand moved to her belly, noticed the gold chain at Mia's neck, noticed the way Mia cried in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening, and Vivian had understood, with a clarity that terrified her, that Luca loved Mia, that he had chosen Mia, that he had married Mia, or would marry Mia, and that Vivian, who had done everything right, who had waited, who had smiled, who had never made a scene, was about to lose everything, not because she was not good enough, but because she was not the woman Luca loved, and that loss felt, to Vivian, like a humiliation so deep it could only be answered with humiliation, like a pain so sharp it could only be answered by causing pain.
That is why she stood in the ballroom, in her red dress, holding Mia's tray, asking questions that were not questions, and that is why, when Mia bent in pain, Vivian did not step back, did not call for help, did not show mercy, but leaned closer, and said, in a voice that was sweet and sharp at the same time, "Oh, dear, are you ill? Is it the baby? Or is it the shame of being caught? Tell us, Mia, tell everyone, who is the father? Or do you not know? Or is there no father, only a secret, only a ring you hide beneath your apron, only a lie you have been telling us all?" The guests gasped, and a woman put a hand over her mouth, and a man stood up, and the room, which had been quiet, went even quieter, because Vivian had said out loud the thing everyone had been wondering and no one had dared to say, and there was no longer any way to pretend that nothing had happened, and no longer any way to look away, and Mia, who was crying, who was in pain, who was holding her belly with both hands now, looked at Vivian, and then at Luca, who was walking toward her, and then back at Vivian, and she understood, suddenly, that the secret was over, that it had ended, not in the way she had hoped, not in a church, not in a quiet conversation, but in a ballroom, in front of strangers, with a tray in her hands and tears on her face, and she did not know whether to be grateful or terrified, and she was both, at the same time, in a way that made her hands shake and her tears fall and her whole body feel as if it were coming apart.