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Sarah demands a twirl before we’re released, and Veda gives her one, silk flaring, and my daughter applauds while my mother watches me watch it happen. I hand my wife into the car before the sermon starts.

In the car, she chews her lip and doesn’t speak.

Maybe I can get this out of the way if we talk about it. “Nervous?”

“Do they serve drinks at this particular lion’s den?”

“Full bar.”

“Then no, not nervous. Just thirsty.”

So she’s nervous. Hopefully that will keep her on her toes. “Just remember who you came with is the guy you leave with.”

That garners a dubious look. “Meaning?”

“Meaning all of Milan will have a hard time paying attention to their dates, thanks to you.”

She smiles, rolls her eyes, and glances away. “Flatterer.”

“Flattery implies dishonesty, and I’m just telling you the God’s honest truth.”

She doesn’t answer. But her secret smile at the window does.

The moment the car door opens, the gala engulfs us. Cameras swarm the new arrivals at the entrance. Veda manages the flashes with her poised, keynote-ready demeanor. She appears regal. My hand rests on her lower back, and she smiles through it all. Whatever I paid her, it still feels like not enough.

Inside, fashion week has dressed the old palazzo in orchids and light. I collect two glasses of champagne, hand her one, and keep us moving—an industrialist here, a museum director there, introductions dealt and gathered. Veda gives each of them ninety seconds of full attention, and they walk away charmed and slightly interviewed.

She works a room the same as she works a diagnosis. Nobody notices the workup until it’s over. “You’re good at this, Veda.”

“It’s just networking in a very expensive dress.”

“It slipped my mind that small talk is a part of your professional life.”

“Incoming,” she murmurs against her glass. “Ivory gown, ten o’clock, moving through this crowd with no friction at all. A shark moving through a school of fish.”

I snort at that. “Accurate. That’s Allegra.”

Time has not touched her, because time knows better. Black curls with silver threaded through on purpose, bone-colored silk skintight. The small scar through her left eyebrow on display rather than hidden, since it makes strangers wonder, and she enjoys strangers wondering about her. She moves across the floor, gathering looks in abundance, and she reaches her destination already laughing at something.

“Lupo.” Both hands on my shoulders, an air kiss for each cheek. “You came. And you brought her.”

“Allegra Brancati, this is Doctor Veda Raines. My wife.”

“The doctor.” Allegra takes Veda’s hand in both of hers and holds it a beat past custom, cataloging the manicure, the wrist, the ring. Especially the ring.

“Oh, forgive my English, but Milan has been starving for a look at you. Aren’t you lovely. So fresh. Wherever does one find something so wholesome anymore?”

“A conference,” Veda says pleasantly. “He attended my keynote.”

“A lecture.” Allegra laughs, delighted, and lightly touches my lapel with two fingers. A familiar gesture, like a woman adjusting her own property. As if she has any right to lay a hand on me. As if I would ever point that out here. “Tesoro, you used to sleep through lectures. I once watched you sign a shipping contract during a eulogy.” She leans in as if confiding in Veda. “He hates long speeches.”

“Is that right?”

Allegra’s eyes never leave Veda. “You’ll forgive us, dottoressa. A lifetime of history makes for shorthand. It must be tedious, hearing a language you don’t speak.”

“Not at all,” Veda says. “I hear it at work constantly. Families use shorthand in front of the patient, particularly when the patient doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth that’s right in front of them.”

The sentence flows so smoothly that Allegra remains smiling until it hits bone. She lifts her chin slightly, reassessing her image as the innocent little wife. On my arm, my wife sips champagne, watching her with complete confidence.