Chapter 2 - THE GRANDMOTHER WHO SAW THROUGH HIM
“The Damian DeMarco?”
Evelyn Sullivan’s question carried far more suspicion than admiration.
Phoebe wanted to disappear.
Damian, to his credit, did not flinch.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Evelyn looked him over slowly, beginning with the polished black shoes and ending with the dark eyes that had made corporate executives, politicians, and at least one notoriously aggressive television interviewer lose their train of thought.
Then she looked at Phoebe.
“You told me your fiancé worked in logistics.”
Phoebe’s stomach dropped.
Technically, she had.
She had invented the imaginary man gradually over four months, adding details whenever Evelyn asked questions.
He worked in logistics.
He traveled.
He was private.
He was handsome but “not annoyingly handsome,” because Phoebe had apparently underestimated how elaborate lies became when an eighty-year-old grandmother had excellent memory and unlimited time.
Damian answered before Phoebe could.
“I do work in logistics.”
Evelyn narrowed her eyes.
“You own half the logistics.”
“Not half.”
“That sounds like billionaire arithmetic.”
Something remarkable happened.
Damian smiled.
Actually smiled.
Phoebe stared.
She had worked in the DeMarco mansion for four months and had seen him approve a twenty-million-dollar acquisition with less expression than he was currently showing her grandmother.
Evelyn looked at their joined hands.
Then at Phoebe.
“You never said he was your employer.”
Phoebe stopped breathing.
Damian’s thumb moved once against her knuckles.
Not a squeeze.
A warning?
Comfort?
She couldn’t tell.
“He is,” Phoebe admitted.
Evelyn’s eyebrows rose higher.
“So you’re engaged to your boss.”
“Grandma—”
“Interesting.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Oh, I’m certain it is.”
Damian said, “Mrs. Sullivan, perhaps we should get you inside before your appointment.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“My heart is unreliable. My mind is not.”
Damian’s smile disappeared.
“Understood.”
Good.
Phoebe almost laughed despite her terror.
Evelyn turned toward the elevator.
“Come on, then.”
Phoebe whispered to Damian, “You should leave.”
“I just arrived.”
“This was supposed to be lunch, not a hostage situation.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“My grandmother hasn’t started asking how many children we want.”
He glanced at her.
“How many?”
Phoebe nearly elbowed him.
Evelyn called from twenty feet away.
“I can still hear you.”
Wonderful.
The cardiology appointment lasted forty-five minutes.
Damian waited.
Phoebe repeatedly told him he did not need to.
He repeatedly replied that leaving immediately after arriving as her supposedly devoted fiancé would create more questions than staying.
Unfortunately, he was right.
So Damian DeMarco sat in the waiting room of a cardiology clinic beside three retirees and a stack of magazines.
His security detail remained downstairs.
He took two phone calls outside.
Short.
Quiet.
No one died, as far as Phoebe could tell.
When Evelyn came out, she looked pale but cheerful.
Dr. Patel had adjusted medication and scheduled additional testing.
No immediate surgery.
Phoebe nearly cried from relief.
Evelyn noticed.
She always did.
“I’m not dying this week, darling.”
“Grandma.”
“Someone should tell the dramatic people in the family.”
Damian rose.
“Good news?”
“For now.”
Evelyn studied him again.
“Lunch.”
Phoebe froze.
“Grandma, you’re tired.”
“I am eighty. I’m always tired.”
Then to Damian:
“Do you eat?”
“Occasionally.”
“Good. You can explain yourself over soup.”
Phoebe closed her eyes.
Lunch happened in Lakeview Gardens’ private dining room.
Not because Damian requested privacy.
Because Evelyn did.
That worried Phoebe more.
The three of them sat near a window overlooking a small courtyard.
Evelyn ordered tomato soup.
Phoebe ordered nothing until her grandmother glared.
Damian ordered coffee.
“You’re not eating?” Evelyn asked.
“I have another lunch later.”
“With whom?”
Phoebe whispered, “Grandma.”
“What? If he’s marrying you, I’m allowed to know whether another woman is waiting.”
Damian looked at Phoebe.
Something unreadable passed between them.
Then he said, “There is another woman.”
Phoebe almost dropped her spoon.
Evelyn leaned back.
“I knew it.”
“Damian.”
He continued calmly.
“She believes she is supposed to marry me.”
Silence.
Phoebe stared.
“What?”
Damian looked at Evelyn.
“This is one reason I came today.”
Phoebe’s humiliation transformed instantly into suspicion.
“You had a reason?”
“Yes.”
“Other than rescuing your pathetic maid?”
His face hardened.
“Do not call yourself that.”
The words came fast enough that she blinked.
Damian corrected more calmly.
“I did not come because I considered you pathetic.”
“Then why?”
Evelyn said, “Excellent question.”
Damian rested one hand beside his coffee.
“My uncle and another family have been negotiating a business alliance.”
“What family?” Phoebe asked.
“The Rinaldis.”
Even Phoebe knew that name.
Rinaldi Development controlled construction companies, freight contracts, casinos outside Illinois, and enough questionable businesses to make newspapers phrase everything carefully.
“And the woman?”
“Gianna Rinaldi.”
Evelyn’s expression sharpened.
“The blonde one from the charity magazines?”
“Yes.”
“She always looks hungry.”
Phoebe choked on soup.
Damian almost smiled again.
He continued.
“My uncle believes a marriage between Gianna and me would stabilize several business interests.”
Phoebe stared.
“People still do that?”
“In my family?”
“Yes.”
“That is insane.”
“Yes.”
“Have you told them no?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Then?”
Damian looked at her.
“They don’t believe no is permanent until it becomes inconvenient to challenge.”
Something about that sentence bothered Phoebe.
Not because she disagreed.
Because she understood it.
She had spent four months lying to Evelyn because she feared disappointing her.
Damian, apparently, was being pushed toward marriage by people who treated his choices as negotiable.
Different worlds.
Same ugly assumption.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“There is a foundation gala tomorrow night.”
“Okay.”
“My uncle intends to announce negotiations between the DeMarco and Rinaldi families.”
“Business?”
“Publicly, yes.”
“And privately?”
“An engagement is expected.”
Phoebe stared.
“Yours.”
“Yes.”
“To Gianna.”
“Yes.”
“Who thinks she’s marrying you.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know what Gianna thinks.”
Interesting.
“You haven’t asked her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because our families communicate through attorneys more efficiently than they communicate through people.”
Evelyn snorted.
“Sounds healthy.”
Damian accepted the criticism.
Phoebe folded her arms.
“So you heard me begging for a fake boyfriend and thought, wonderful, I need a fake girlfriend.”
“Essentially.”
Her mouth fell open.
Evelyn smiled.
“I like him more now.”
“Grandma!”
“What? At least he’s honest.”
Phoebe turned back to Damian.
“You could have told me before three cars arrived.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His answer was immediate.
“Because I knew you would refuse before your grandmother saw me.”
Phoebe went cold.
Damian saw it.
The same second.
“That was wrong.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry.”
Evelyn watched both.
Damian continued.
“I made the decision for you because I believed the outcome helped us both.”
Phoebe’s heart pounded.
“And that’s supposed to make it better?”
“No.”
Good answer.
“It explains why I did it.”
“But doesn’t excuse.”
“No.”
She looked down at his hand still near his coffee.
That mattered.
He could have defended.
He did not.
“Do you need me tomorrow?”
“I would like you to attend.”
“Need?”
“No.”
“Would my appearing with you stop this announcement?”
“It would complicate it significantly.”
“Because your family won’t believe you can be engaged to Gianna while dating your maid.”
Damian’s expression hardened at the phrasing.
“They will believe I am publicly choosing someone else.”
“Someone they consider inappropriate.”
“Yes.”
There.
Phoebe looked away.
Plus-size.
Working-class.
Household employee.
The kind of woman people like Salvatore DeMarco probably expected to remain invisible behind silver trays.
Evelyn set down spoon.
“Phoebe.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to help him?”
Phoebe stared.
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t answer yet.”
Damian nodded.
“Agreed.”
Evelyn turned toward him.
“And you.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“If you need my granddaughter because she makes another woman less convenient to marry, don’t confuse that with choosing her.”
Damian went completely still.
Phoebe felt tears threaten.
Evelyn continued.
“Phoebe has spent too much of her life believing being useful is the same thing as being loved.”
“Grandma.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“You cook when everyone visits.”
“You cover Melissa’s emergencies.”
“You work double shifts.”
“You tell me stories about imaginary men because you’re worried my heart cannot survive you being alone.”
Phoebe looked down.
Evelyn reached across table.
“You are not required to become useful to him too.”
Silence.
Damian spoke first.
“She’s right.”
Phoebe looked at him.
“I came because your problem happened to fit mine.”
He did not soften.
“That is the truth.”
Something about brutal honesty made it easier to breathe.
Then:
“If you say no, the matter ends.”
“No retaliation at work?”
His face changed.
“No.”
“No lost shifts?”
“No.”
“No suddenly finding out the mansion no longer needs me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No money?”
“What?”
“I’m not taking money to pretend to date you.”
“I wasn’t going to offer—”
“You own three cars for one assisted-living visit.”
“Two were unnecessary.”
“Damian.”
He sighed.
“No money.”
“Any other benefit?”
“Transportation and security if you attend because they are part of the event.”
“Fine.”
“And your grandmother’s lunch.”
Evelyn brightened.
“I accept.”
Phoebe glared.
Evelyn smiled sweetly.
The appointment ended.
Damian walked them to the entrance.
Before leaving, Phoebe turned.
“Tomorrow night only.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You’re agreeing?”
“One gala.”
“Yes.”
“We tell my grandmother the truth after her next test.”
Damian looked at Evelyn.
Evelyn said, “I already know.”
Phoebe froze.
“What?”
Her grandmother rolled her eyes.
“Darling, you described your imaginary fiancé for four months and never once gave him a last name.”
Phoebe stared.
“You knew?”
“I knew something was strange.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you were frightened.”
Tears filled Phoebe’s eyes.
Evelyn squeezed her hand.
“I was waiting for you to trust me.”
That hurt.
In the best possible way.
Damian looked away, giving them privacy.
Then Evelyn said:
“And now I want to see the dress.”
Phoebe laughed through tears.
“What dress?”
“For the gala.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I am not becoming Cinderella.”
Damian said quietly, “Good.”
She looked at him.
He continued.
“Come as yourself.”
That sentence stayed with Phoebe all afternoon.
She agreed to one night.
Nothing more.
But before Damian entered his car, he handed her a card.
Not his personal number.
A direct number to an attorney.
“What is this?”
“Independent counsel.”
“For what?”
“If we are going to present a false relationship publicly, you should know exactly what risks exist.”
Phoebe stared.
“You already hired me a lawyer?”
“No.”
“I called someone who does not work for me and asked whether she was available if you wanted.”
Important.
“She will bill me?”
“If you prefer.”
“No.”
Damian almost argued.
Stopped.
“She can bill you.”
“Yes.”
“And if I choose her, I pay.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She pocketed the card.
Damian opened car door.
Then looked back.
“Phoebe.”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, if anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, tell me.”
“And?”
“We leave.”
“Even if your uncle announces something?”
“Yes.”
“Even if investors are watching?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it costs you money?”
Damian’s face changed.
“That is what I need to learn.”
Phoebe stared.
Then he got into the car.
As the convoy pulled away, Evelyn stood beside her walker smiling.
“What?”
Phoebe asked.
“Nothing.”
“Grandma.”
“He’s in trouble.”
“He is the trouble.”
“Same thing sometimes.”
Phoebe sighed.
She had needed a boyfriend for one morning.
Instead, she had somehow agreed to attend a mafia-family gala with a billionaire who was trying to escape an arranged marriage.
And she was beginning to suspect the most dangerous part had nothing to do with guns, money, or the DeMarco name.
It was that Damian DeMarco had listened when she told him no.
Then changed what he was doing.
Phoebe had known too many men who could pretend affection.
May you like
Very few who could survive correction.
Tomorrow night would tell her which kind he really was.
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