Just go in there, help him plan whatever wedding nonsense he needs.
Just get this over with, and don’t cry until you get home.
The maître d’ recognized her from all the times she’d picked up Mr. Cannizzaro’s takeout orders. But tonight, instead of directing her to the service entrance, he actually smiled.
“Miss Posada? Mr. Cannizzaro is expecting you.”
Expecting her. Like she was a real person. Like she was...
No, don’t even think it,she quickly reprimanded herself. This was business. Maybe he needed her to coordinate with the wedding planner. Maybe sample cakes since she knew his preferences. Maybe...
He stood when she approached.
Aivan Cannizzaro, who treated standing as an inefficient use of energy unless absolutely necessary, actually stood.
For her.
“Signo—” Her voice faltered when he came around to pull out her chair.
“Sienah.” His voice was different. Neither stiff nor curt like he usually sounded. But just different. “And I think we can dispense with the formalities after all these years, don’t you think?”
“I...” What did one call one’s employer when not employing? “Mr. Cannizzaro?”
His mouth curved slightly. “Aivan.”
Aivan?
Her brain...short-circuited.
It could not comprehend why her master’s son would want him to call him by his first name.
It just didn’t make sense.
“Are you not going to sit down?”
Riiiight.
She wanted to act posh like all the other girls he dated over the years, but she ended up collapsing in the chair he had pulled out because her knees weren’t giving her much choice.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to dinner.”
Oh, she knew. She’d practiced her supportive smile in the mirror until her cheeks hurt. But now that it was time to show that smile she had tried so, so hard to perfect?
Not gonna happen.
All she could do was shake her head while Flavier’s buzzed around them with its usual elegant chaos. Crystal and silver and conversations in three languages. She’d been here dozens of times, but always through the back door. Always invisible. Never sitting at a table that probably cost more to reserve than her mother made in a week.
“My parents have given me an ultimatum.”
Here it comes. The announcement. The name of whichever perfect woman would get to wake up to his face every morning while Sienah changed their sheets.
“If I won’t join the family business—”
Good. He shouldn’t. He was meant to race, not make deals in back rooms. She’d seen enough of that world to know it would destroy the part of him that still smiled real smiles sometimes.
“—they want to make sure I marry a bride of their choice.”
Of course. Strategic marriage. Some ambassador’s daughter or hotel heiress who’d look perfect on his arm at galas. Someone who belonged in his world instead of just cleaning it.
