Chapter 2
441 Words
The next day, Isabella officially joined the Delorme family as a "special advisor".
At the banquet, she sat to Adrian's right in a Chanel suit, her smile perfectly polite.
"The Montenegro family has long been one of our allies," Adrian said, raising his glass. "Isabella has extensive experience in overseas markets and will be heading up our family's international expansion."
A round of applause broke out.
Isabella stood and nodded gracefully.
Her gaze swept across the room, lingering on me for a second.
Then it moved on—as if I were a piece of furniture.
I looked down and sipped my juice, pretending not to notice.
Halfway through the evening, Isabella walked over, wineglass in hand.
"You're Serena, right? Adrian talks about you a lot. He says you're sweet and thoughtful, that you take excellent care of him. Back in business school, his apartment was always a mess. I was the one picking up after him."
My hand tightened around my glass.
"Thank you, but he's got me for that now. No need to put yourself out."
Her smile froze for an instant, then returned to normal.
"Of course. I wish you both happiness."
She turned and walked back to the head table, clinking glasses and chatting and laughing with Adrian.
Nearby, two women from the family were whispering, "Look, Isabella is such a perfect match for Adrian."
"Exactly. A match of equal standing is the only proper way."
I lowered my head, staring at the amber-colored juice in my glass.
I'd heard too many comments like these over the past three years.
From "Her father is just an ordinary office worker" to "She can't even speak French."
I'd grown numb to it.
When dinner ended, Adrian had been drinking, so I drove.
He leaned back in the passenger seat with his eyes closed.
"Isabella is quite nice, isn't she? If there's anything you're unsure about, you can ask her. There's a business dinner next week—come with me and learn from her how to handle these social obligations."
I gripped the steering wheel and said nothing.
When we got home, I walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
The woman in the mirror wore a plain dress, her hair casually tied up, without a trace of makeup.
How long had it been since I'd worn haute couture?
How long since I'd been to Paris?
How long since I'd looked at financial reports?
Three years. Three whole years.
I turned on the faucet. Water trickled down my cheeks.
Staring at my reflection, I asked:
"How much longer do I have to pretend?"
"Is he truly worth all this?"
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