Fair.
Painfully so.
I smooth my hands over the skirt I changed into three times before leaving the house. Nothing about me feels right for this place. My sandals feel too cheap. My dress feels too simple. My hair, which I had thought looked soft and pretty at home, now feels like it belongs on a woman who spends her mornings hauling feed buckets and arguing with city inspectors.
Because I do.
That’s exactly who I am.
We’re not hurting by any means. We have a roof over our heads. Food in the fridge. A reliable vehicle, most days. Livy has what she needs and many things she wants.
But this?
This is not comfortable money.
This is generational money. Empire money. Men in suits opening doors before I reach them money.
Most of what I have goes to Livy, the sanctuary, or the animals who come to me half-starved and scared of their own shadows. If there is anything left after that, it usually ends up becoming new fencing, medicine, feed, or some emergency repair that waited until two in the morning to make itself known.
I’m proud of what I built.
I truly am.
But as the car rolls to a stop in front of Maverick’s home, my pride feels suddenly small beside all this stone.
A man in a black suit steps forward and opens my door before I can reach for the handle.
I freeze…Livy does not.
“Thank you,” she says brightly, hopping out like she gets chauffeured to Italian palaces every Tuesday.
The man’s mouth softens. “Prego, signorina.”
Livy looks back at me. “Mama, he called me something fancy.”
“He did,” I say, climbing out carefully.
Another man opens the rear door and retrieves the small tin of cookies Livy insisted we bring because, in her words, “You don’t show up to supper empty-handed.”
The front doors open before we reach them, and there he is.
Maverick Moretti.
No suit jacket tonight. Just black slacks, a white dress shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he has no idea how unfair that is to every woman with working eyes.
But it’s not the clothes.
It’s the way every person near him shifts when he appears.
Not dramatically. But with awareness.
His eyes find mine first, and the noise in my head suddenly quiets.
Then his gaze moves to Livy, and something in his face softens.
“Olivia,” he says. “Benvenuta.”
Livy grins, holding up the tin. “We brought cookies. Mama said not to, but I said we have manners.”
