Rena’s POV
Armani’s father spends most of dinner watching me, his gaze sharp and unreadable over the rim of his wine glass.
It’s not a casual glance—it’s an assessment, a quiet dissection of who I am, what I want, and whether I belong here. I knew this was coming, had braced myself for it, but that doesn’t make the scrutiny any easier to endure.
Armani’s mother is a little more talkative, though not by much. She asks polite, surface-level questions—where I grew up, how I’m finding Montovia, whether the castle is to my liking. She’s trying, I think, to be warm, but I can see through it. She’s evaluating me just as much as her husband is, only with a softer touch.
I can’t blame them. From their perspective, I’m an American stranger who agreed to a transactional marriage and surrogacy. Th
