Signed in Sin

Chapter Three: Meet the Mother

Le Bernardin was the kind of restaurant where even the air felt expensive.

Crystal chandeliers, crisp white tablecloths, waiters moving like ballet dancers. I'd read about this place in magazines. Never imagined I'd actually be here.

"Breathe," Alexander murmured as we approached the hostess stand. His hand found the small of my back. "You look like you're walking to your execution."

"I'm meeting your mother while wearing a quarter-million-dollar lie on my finger."

"Just try to look madly in love with me."

"I'm not that good an actress."

His lips quirked. "Try."

The hostess led us through tables of people who summered in the Hamptons. This was Alexander's world. Not mine.

Then I saw her.

Catherine Cordovan was striking—silver bob, high cheekbones, those same gray eyes. Cream suit, real pearls. I braced for judgment from a society matriarch.

Instead, she smiled. Genuinely.

"Darling." She kissed Alexander's cheek, then turned to me. "You must be Isabela. Let me look at you."

She took both my hands, studying my face.

"She's beautiful, Alexander. And your eyes—such warmth. I can see why my son is smitten."

Before I could respond, she pulled me into a hug that smelled like Chanel No. 5.

"I've been waiting so long for Alexander to find someone," she said, eyes glistening. "Sit, sit."

A waiter appeared with champagne.

"To new beginnings," Catherine toasted. "And to the woman who finally captured my impossible son's heart."

I tried not to feel like a complete fraud.

"Tell me everything," Catherine said eagerly. "How did you meet?"

I glanced at Alexander. My turn.

"Six months ago. I interviewed at Cordovan Industries—"

"And I couldn't stop thinking about her," Alexander interrupted smoothly, his hand finding mine. "She was brilliant. Sharp, didn't let me intimidate her."

His thumb stroked my knuckles. This was acting. Just acting.

"I called her a month later when a position opened up. I told myself it was professional."

"But it wasn't," Catherine guessed, delighted.

"No." He looked at me with an expression so convincing I almost believed it. "It very much wasn't."

"We kept it quiet because of workplace policies," I added.

"But then we realized life's too short," Alexander finished.

Catherine pressed a hand to her heart. "That's exactly what your father said when he proposed." She squeezed my hand. "I knew you were special. Alexander never talks about the women he dates. But you—he called me at midnight last week, going on about how you reorganized his filing system. I thought, 'Finally, a woman who challenges him.'"

"Oh, I do that regularly," I said.

"I like her," Catherine announced. "Don't mess this up."

After ordering, Catherine leaned closer. "Now, the ring. Let me see it properly."

I extended my hand. She gasped.

"Alexander! This is the Tiffany oval I showed you last Christmas."

Wait. What?

"You have excellent taste, Mother," Alexander said smoothly.

Catherine looked between us, understanding dawning. "You remembered. I showed you this ring in a catalog, and you remembered."

Something shifted in her expression. "You chose the ring I loved. For her."

Two hundred forty-five thousand dollars on a ring his mother mentioned in passing. The man was either genius or insane.

"It's perfect," I said quietly. "I couldn't have chosen better."

"Because you two are perfect together," Catherine said firmly. "A mother knows."

Guilt twisted in my stomach. She was genuinely happy. And it was all a lie.

"Catherine," I said carefully. "Alexander is very important to me."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Somewhere between the contract and the ring shopping, he'd become important.

"I can see that," Catherine said softly. "The way you look at him. That's real."

Was it?

Our food arrived. Catherine told stories of Alexander as a child—organizing toy cars at age six, lecturing other children about proper categorization.

"That explains so much," I laughed.

"Can we please talk about anything else?" Alexander groaned.

"The wedding! Have you set a date?"

"Three weeks," Alexander said.

Catherine's glass paused midway to her lips. "Three weeks? Planning takes months—"

"We don't want to wait," I said quickly, reaching for his hand. "We've already waited six months keeping it secret."

Catherine melted. "Oh, you romantic fools. Fine. But I'm helping plan everything."

Two hours later, we said goodbye on the sidewalk. Catherine hugged me, whispered "Take care of my boy," and swept off.

Alexander made no move toward the waiting Bentley.

"That went well," he said.

"Your mother is lovely."

"She really likes you."

"I like her too." I twisted the ring. "Which makes this harder."

"What do you mean?"

"She thinks this is real. She's genuinely happy. And in a year, when we divorce, it'll break her heart."

He was quiet. "I know."

"Do you? Because she's already planning our future—"

"I know." His voice sharpened. "She's my mother. But if I don't do this, Vincent destroys everything. Three thousand jobs. My father's legacy."

"I understand. She just deserves better than this lie."

"Yes. She does." He stepped closer. "But this is what we have. So we do it carefully. When it ends, we'll say we grew apart. She'll survive."

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture tender. "You did beautifully today."

"Your mother made it easy."

"She said the same about you." His hand lingered near my face. "When you said I was important to you. Did you mean it?"

The honest answer was yes. But admitting it felt dangerous.

"We're business partners," I said instead.

"Right. Business partners."

Disappointment flickered in his eyes before vanishing.

"I should get you home. Big week ahead. My mother's planning, telling your mother—"

"Oh god. My mother. How am I going to tell her?"

"With me. Tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours to learn how to lie to the woman who raised me.

"Okay."

In the Bentley, I watched the city blur past.

My phone buzzed. Maya: *HOW DID IT GO???*

I glanced at Alexander, already on his phone.

*She's wonderful. Which makes this worse.*

*Worse how?*

I looked at the ring, at the man who'd remembered his mother's favorite design, who'd held my hand so convincingly.

*I think I'm in over my head.*

Maya: *You've been in over your head since you said yes. Are you drowning or learning to swim?*

I didn't have an answer.

As Alexander's

hand brushed mine on the seat—accidentally, probably—I couldn't shake the feeling that my real life was already behind me.

And whatever came next was going to change everything.