Chapter 2 - THE ONLY REASON I SAID YES
Sophia stared at me across the marble kitchen island as though I had just asked her to help rob my own bank.
“Why are you doing this?”
For once, I did not have an immediate answer.
That bothered me.
I had built most of my adult life around knowing why people did things.
Fear.
Money.
Pride.
Revenge.
Loyalty.
Desperation.
Everyone had a lever.
Find it, and people became predictable.
But Lily Carter had walked into my foyer with a crooked sock and a crayon drawing and somehow reached a place inside me I had stopped examining years earlier.
I looked down at my coffee.
“My mother died when I was fourteen.”
Sophia’s expression changed.
She had worked inside my house for four years.
She knew almost nothing about my childhood.
That was intentional.
“My father was already running the Moretti organization,” I continued. “He was gone more than he was home.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“Cancer.”
Sophia lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.”
I looked at her.
For an employee who spent most of her life making herself invisible, Sophia had a strange ability to say things other people avoided.
“My mother spent her last month worrying about me,” I said.
“Not herself?”
“No.”
“She kept asking my father whether somebody would make sure I ate.”
Sophia’s mouth softened.
“I was fourteen, angry, convinced I didn’t need anybody.”
“Most fourteen-year-old boys think that.”
“I was worse.”
“Why?”
“My surname.”
That made her smile faintly.
Then the smile disappeared.
“The night before she died, she asked if I was happy.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her yes.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
The word came quietly.
I had not thought about that lie in years.
“She knew,” Sophia said.
“Probably.”
“She was your mother.”
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
“So yesterday, when Lily said your mother wanted to see you happy before she died…”
I shrugged.
“I understood more than I wanted to.”
Sophia looked toward the staff hallway.
Lily was still asleep.
“She isn’t asking me to get married.”
“I know.”
“She just worries because I’m alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I have Lily.”
“Yes.”
“That is not what my mother means.”
I understood.
Parents often used the word alone when they meant unwitnessed.
No one beside you when something went wrong.
No person who knew when you were frightened before you had to say it.
No one whose first instinct was to come.
“I am not offering a marriage,” I said.
“I should hope not.”
“Or anything physical.”
Her cheeks colored.
“I did not think—”
“Good.”
I almost smiled.
“One weekend.”
“You meet my family.”
“Yes.”
“You pretend we’ve been seeing each other.”
“Yes.”
“My father will interrogate you.”
“I’ve survived federal grand juries.”
“Henry Carter is worse.”
I finally smiled.
“That sounds interesting.”
“It won’t be.”
She folded her hands.
“My sister Emma will know immediately.”
“Then we tell her.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she cannot lie.”
“Neither can Lily.”
Sophia groaned.
True.
“What do I call you?”
I asked.
“What?”
“At home.”
“Sophia.”
“No, I mean what do I call you when your father asks how we met?”
She stared.
“We did meet here.”
“I assume you don’t want to tell him you clean my house.”
Her face hardened immediately.
“Why not?”
That answer surprised me.
“I’m not ashamed of my job.”
“Good.”
“I am ashamed that my daughter just tried to arrange my romantic life with my employer.”
“Reasonable.”
She almost laughed.
“If we do this…”
She paused.
I waited.
“No touching unless I initiate it or we need to make the story believable in front of my family.”
“Agreed.”
“No expensive gifts.”
“Agreed.”
“You do not pay any of my family’s bills.”
I hesitated.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Dominic.”
“Agreed.”
“No men standing outside my parents’ farmhouse looking like they are guarding a head of state.”
“I need security.”
“One car.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“One close. Another stays farther away.”
She sighed.
“Fine.”
“You and Lily travel with me.”
“Commercial flight.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“I have a plane.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
“It is already fueled.”
Her eyes closed.
“Private plane makes this look even less believable.”
“Your mother is dying.”
Silence.
I continued more gently.
“You should spend as much time with her as possible, not six hours navigating airports during holiday travel.”
That ended the argument.
Sophia looked down.
“Fine.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me directly.
“Do not make my father feel small.”
The request surprised me more than all the others.
“Why would I?”
“Because he will know you have money.”
“That usually happens.”
“He will resent it.”
“Also common.”
“But he spent forty years building that farm.”
Sophia’s voice changed.
“It isn’t impressive by your standards.”
“I don’t know my standards yet.”
“They are marble floors and private planes.”
“Those are possessions.”
She studied me.
“Don’t let him think you believe his life is less because it costs less.”
Something tightened in my chest.
“Agreed.”
Sophia nodded.
Then:
“And we leave Monday morning.”
“Unless your mother needs you longer.”
“My job—”
“Will still exist.”
“Dominic.”
“Your mother is dying.”
I held her gaze.
“If you need three days, you take three.”
“If you need three weeks, you take three weeks.”
“You do not need permission to be someone’s daughter.”
She looked away too quickly.
Her eyes had filled.
I pretended not to notice.
That was the first kindness I knew how to give her.
At six-thirty, Lily entered the kitchen dragging Mr. Whiskers by one ear.
Her pajama shirt was backward.
Her hair looked like she had negotiated with a hurricane and lost.
She stopped when she saw me.
“Mister.”
“Good morning.”
“Mommy said I’m not allowed to ask you to be boyfriend anymore.”
Sophia covered her face.
I said:
“That is probably a good rule.”
Lily climbed onto the stool beside her mother.
“Did you say yes?”
“No.”
Her face fell.
Then I added:
“But I am going to Aunt Emma’s wedding.”
Lily gasped.
“As Mommy’s friend?”
I looked at Sophia.
She looked as though she wanted the floor to open.
“Yes.”
Lily considered.
Then:
“That’s how boyfriend starts.”
Sophia groaned.
I drank my coffee.
The security guards outside the kitchen suddenly found something fascinating about the ceiling.
We left Manhattan Friday morning.
Sophia wore jeans, an old wool coat, and almost no makeup.
Lily carried Mr. Whiskers and insisted on bringing six crayons despite having no paper.
I had packed one suitcase.
Sophia had two.
Lily apparently required more luggage than most diplomats.
On the plane, she immediately climbed into the seat beside me.
Sophia stopped.
“Lily.”
“She can sit.”
“She kicks.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
Twenty minutes later, Lily kicked coffee onto my trousers.
Sophia looked at me.
“I warned you.”
I had no defense.
The Pennsylvania countryside appeared beneath us just after noon.
Snow covered the fields in long white stretches broken by stone houses, barns, and dark lines of trees.
When the plane landed at a small private airfield, Sophia became quieter.
I noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Lie.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
Truth.
“He loves you.”
“That is sometimes the problem.”
I understood more than she realized.
Henry Carter met us at the farmhouse.
Six feet tall.
Sixty-two.
Broad shoulders softened slightly by age.
Work boots.
Flannel shirt.
Hands that looked capable of rebuilding a tractor with no tools.
He saw the black SUV.
Then me.
Then Sophia.
Then me again.
“You’re the boyfriend?”
Sophia nearly choked.
“Dad.”
“What?”
Lily ran toward him.
“Grandpa!”
His entire face transformed.
He picked her up.
Kissed her.
Then looked at me over her head.
Transformation reversed.
“Henry Carter.”
“Dominic Moretti.”
We shook hands.
His grip was deliberately hard.
Mine was not.
That seemed to disappoint him.
“You from New York?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“Investments.”
Sophia coughed.
Not technically false.
Not remotely complete.
Henry looked at the car.
“Must be good investments.”
“They’ve done well.”
“Hmm.”
Sophia had warned me.
Do not make him small.
So when he reached for her suitcase, I let him take one.
I took the other.
No staff.
No order.
Just two men carrying luggage into a farmhouse.
Margaret Carter was waiting in the living room.
Nothing prepared me.
She sat beneath a handmade quilt in a worn recliner near the window.
Eighty-six pounds might have been generous.
A lavender scarf covered her head.
Her hands looked almost translucent.
Yet the moment she saw Sophia, the sick woman became enormous.
“My baby.”
Sophia broke.
She crossed the room and dropped to her knees.
Margaret wrapped both arms around her daughter.
Lily squeezed between them.
Three generations crying.
I looked away.
Private things deserve witnesses sometimes.
Not observers.
Then Margaret saw me.
Her eyes sharpened.
Cancer had taken her strength.
Not intelligence.
“So,” she said.
“You’re the boyfriend.”
I heard Sophia inhale sharply.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret looked at my coat.
Shoes.
Watch.
Then my face.
“No, you’re not.”
Silence.
Henry frowned.
Sophia went white.
Lily announced:
“He’s practicing.”
Margaret laughed.
A real laugh.
Weak.
Beautiful.
Then she looked at me again.
“Come here, Mr. Practicing Boyfriend.”
I obeyed.
She took my hand between both of hers.
Her fingers were cold.
“You’re dangerous.”
Sophia froze.
Henry straightened.
I said nothing.
Margaret smiled.
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m dying.”
“I don’t have enough time left to be impressed by reputations.”
Then she squeezed my hand.
“Whatever this is…”
Her eyes moved toward Sophia.
“Be kind to my girl.”
The room went quiet.
I looked at Sophia.
She was crying again.
I looked back at Margaret.
“Yes, ma’am.”
May you like
At the time, I thought I was promising one weekend.
I had no idea the dying woman had just asked for the first piece of a promise that would eventually cost me half my empire.
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