Chapter Ten: The Dinner That Never Ended
The silence before her mother’s arrival was the kind that clung to the ribs.
Lena sat alone at a corner table in a modest Florentine bistro, a place with no white tablecloths or hovering waiters, where the scent of garlic, lemon, and slow-cooked lamb drifted from the open kitchen. It was intimate and warm—everything her mother would hate.
Which was, of course, why she’d chosen it.
The table wobbled slightly when she shifted. Her wine sat untouched. Her nails drummed once against the wood. She was dressed in a dark green silk dress, minimalist and soft against her skin, her hair loose, makeup clean and deliberate. No mask. Just definition.
The green was intentional.
The exact shade she wore in that first high-profile campaign—the one her mother
