Page 132 of Hate Mates

Just as the first course is about to be served, the dining room door swings open. A girl, no older than sixteen, bursts in. Her dark hair is windswept, and her cheeks are flushed. This must be Valentina.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, not sounding sorry at all. Her eyes land on me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—sympathy, perhaps—before it's replaced by a carefully neutral expression.

Cesare's jaw tightens. "Valentina, so nice of you to join us. This is Vittoria, your future stepmother."

The word 'stepmother' is practically sneered, and I watch as everyone tenses—it’s a damn joke. I'm barely older than Valentina herself. I’ve just turned nineteen, for God;s sake.

"Hi," Valentina says, sliding into the empty seat next to me. "Welcome to the family."

There's an edge to her voice that I can't quite place. Before I can analyze it further, the first course arrives.

Conversation during dinner is stilted and formal. Cesare and my father discuss business in low, serious tones. Whereas the children all continue to speak in Italian, talking about my looks, my hair, my accent, and my body. It takes everything in me not to bark back a retort: I’m supposed to play nice. As my father cautioned me many times on the plane, I’m not to open my smart mouth.

"So, Vittoria," Lorenzo suddenly speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Tell us about yourself. What are your... interests?"

The way he says 'interests' makes it clear he doesn't expect me to have any of substance. I take a sip of water, buying myself a moment to compose my thoughts. I really despise how I’m being treated, I understand that their mother died only a year ago, but I am not at fault for any of what’s happening, if I had my way, I wouldn’t be here, but I don’t—just as they don’t.

"I enjoy reading," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "Particularly classical literature. I'm also fond of art and have been studying Italian Renaissance painters."

"Really?" Valentina asks, leaning in. "Who's your favorite?"

"Botticelli," I reply without hesitation. "His work is so intricate and full of hidden meanings."

For a moment, Valentina's carefully crafted indifference slips, and I see genuine interest in her eyes. But before she can respond, Cesare clears his throat, effectively ending the budding conversation. "Vittoria's education has been... adequate," he says dismissively. "But her primary role will be as my wife and the mother of my children."

The words hit me like a slap. I feel my cheeks burn with humiliation, but I force myself to maintain a neutral expression. Across the table, I see my father nod approvingly at Cesare's words.

Valentina's fork clatters against her plate, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. "Excuse me," she mutters, pushing back from the table and rushing out of the room.

Cesare sighs heavily. "You'll have to forgive Valentina," he says to me, his tone condescending. "She's still adjusting to the idea of a new... maternal figure."

I nod mechanically; my appetite completely gone.

“Now, we have more pressing matters to attend to,” my father says, his voice dry and his eyes boring into mine. I brace for what he’s about to say; knowing my father, it could be anything. "We should discuss the wedding arrangements."

My stomach churns at the word 'wedding.' I've known this was coming, of course, but hearing it discussed so casually—as if it were a business transaction rather than the rest of my life—makes it all too real.

"The ceremony will take place in three weeks," Cesare says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That should give us enough time to make all the necessary preparations."

Three weeks until I'm bound to this man for life. I struggle to maintain my composure, focusing on the intricate pattern of the china plate before me.

"Excellent, it’ll be a Christmas wedding," my father agrees. "And the venue?"

"Here, of course," Cesare replies. "The gardens will be covered in snow by then. It'll make for a picturesque setting."

"And what about Vittoria's dress?" Elisabetta suddenly interjects, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I'm sure she'd look simply stunning in mother's gown, don't you think, Father?"

The table falls silent, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I hold my breath, waiting for Cesare's response. His eyes narrow dangerously, and for a moment, I fear he might lash out at his daughter.

Instead, he turns to me, his gaze calculating. "What do you think, Vittoria? Would you like to wear Beatrice's wedding gown?"

It's a test, I realize. A cruel, impossible test. If I say yes, I'll be seen as trying to replace their mother. If I say no, I'll be disrespecting her memory. There's no right answer, and they all know it.

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "While I'm sure Beatrice's gown was beautiful, I think it would be more appropriate for me to have my own dress—perhaps something that honors both our families' traditions."

Cesare's eyebrows raise slightly, the first hint of genuine surprise I've seen from him. My father's eyes narrow, but he says nothing. The children exchange glances, their expressions a mixof shock and begrudging respect. I take a small breath, relieved that I managed to avoid any more upset for them.

"A diplomatic answer," Cesare finally says, his tone unreadable. "We'll discuss it further with the wedding planner."

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