"Dorothy—" I start to protest.
"What? I'm old, not dead. I remember what it was like perfectly well." She waves her hand dismissively. "That feeling when you can't stop thinking about someone. When they make you feel truly alive for the first time."
I sit down across from her at the small table. "What if feeling alive is actually the problem?"
"How could feeling alive possibly be a problem?"
"What if I'm not supposed to feel that way? What if letting myself feel that way ruins everything I've been working toward?"
Dorothy studies me for a long moment, her sharp eyes seeing far too much. "This engagement of yours. It wasn't your choice, was it?"
"Not exactly. It's complicated," I hedge.
"It always is with these arranged marriages." She takes another bite of her pastry. "My marriage was arranged too. 1951. I was twenty years old. Married a man I'd met exactly twice before the wedding day."
"Did you love him?" I ask.
"Eventually, yes." Her eyes go distant with memory. "Not at first, though. At first, I was absolutely furious. I had plans for my life. Dreams. Things I wanted to accomplish. And suddenly, I was someone's wife. Expected to stay home, have babies, keep the house, be quiet and supportive."
"That's exactly—" I stop myself.
"Exactly what you're facing now," she finishes perceptively. "I can see it in your eyes, child. That anger simmering beneath the surface. That fear of losing yourself to someone else's expectations."
"What did you do? How did you handle it?"
"I was miserable for the first year, if I'm being honest. Made his life absolute hell." She smiles at the memory. "Burned his dinners 'accidentally.' Ruined his favorite shirts in the wash. Small rebellions that let me feel like I had some control."
"Did it work?"
"Not really. Then one day, he asked me what I wanted. Really wanted from life, not what everyone expected me to want. And I told him the truth. I wanted to work. To use my nursing skills. To be more than just a housewife keeping his home clean."
"What did he say?" I lean forward, invested in her story.
"He said yes." Her voice softens with affection. "He didn't agree immediately. It took convincing, many long conversations. But he listened. He actually heard me. And eventually, he understood. We built a life together. A real partnership. Not perfect by any means, but ours."
"I don't think my situation is the same as yours was."
"Maybe not exactly," she concedes. "But here's what I learned through those years. Anger and love can coexist in the same heart. You can fight fiercely for what you want and still let someone in emotionally. The question is whether you're willing to trust him enough to try. Whether you're brave enough to be vulnerable."
"I don't know if I can trust him," I admit honestly. "I don't know if I can trust anyone with that much power over me."
"Then find out before you make any final decisions," Dorothy advises, reaching across the table to pat my hand."But don't run before you know for sure. That's just cowardice dressed up as strategy, and you're better than that."
By noon, I'm back home, the conversation with Dorothy replaying in my mind. Papa's assistant intercepts me in the hallway before I can escape to my room.
"Your father wants to see you," she says formally. "In his study. Immediately."
My stomach tightens with anxiety. "Now?"
"Yes, he's waiting."
I make my way to Papa's study, my heart beating faster with each step down the familiar hallway. This summons can't be good.
He's behind his massive desk when I enter, the imposing figure who raised me. Dominic Costa, Don of our family. Silver hair perfectly styled. Sharp eyes that miss nothing. The man who taught me everything about this business and then decided I couldn't run it because of my gender.
"Liana. Sit down." It's not a request.
I sit in one of the leather chairs facing his desk.
