Chapter 63
Sophia's POV
Oh my God.
The question hung in the air like a sword ready to drop, and I felt my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. Maria's expectant smile, Vito's encouraging gaze, the weight of their combined attention—it all pressed down on me like a physical force.
She knows something. She has to know something.
The thought struck me with the force of lightning, sending cold dread racing through my veins. Why else would Maria Castellano, of all people, suggest that I—someone she barely knew—take on such a public, high-profile role? An art auction at one of New York's most prestigious charity events, in front of the city's elite, where every word I spoke would be scrutinized and dissected?
This isn't a coincidence. This is a test.
I could feel the panic building in my chest, threatening to spill over into my carefully maintained composure. Isabella had studied art at Juilliard. Isabella could probably identify a Monet from across a crowded room and discuss the finer points of Renaissance techniques over cocktails. Isabella belonged in rooms full of collectors and critics who spoke in hushed, reverent tones about brushstrokes and artistic vision.
But I wasn't Isabella. I was Sophia Cohen, who had spent the last six years of her life buried in medical textbooks, learning about anatomy and pharmacology, not art history and auction protocols. The closest I'd come to art expertise was the biology illustrations in my textbooks and the occasional museum visit with Alfonso when he was feeling well enough to leave the hospital.
I don't know anything about art. I'll be exposed in front of everyone.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. If I accepted this proposal, I'd be walking into a room full of experts and pretending to be something I wasn't. One wrong comment, one misidentified piece, one moment of obvious ignorance, and everyone would know I was a fraud.
And if they discovered I wasn't really Isabella Cohen, how long would it take them to figure out the rest?
Maria's watching me.
Even as my mind raced through increasingly catastrophic scenarios, I became acutely aware of Maria's careful attention.
She was beautiful, poised, and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about her suggestion. But something in her stillness, in the way she waited for my response, set every warning bell in my head ringing.
Does she know I'm not Isabella? Is this some kind of trap?
My eyes darted involuntarily toward Vito, hoping against hope that he would somehow sense my distress and find a polite way to decline Maria's suggestion. But when I met his gaze, I saw only encouragement and what might have been pride.
He thought I was nervous about public speaking, about making my debut in New York society. He had no idea that I was terrified of being exposed as a complete impostor.
"Isabella?" Vito's voice was gentle, concerned. "You seem uncertain. There's no pressure if you don't feel ready."
He's trying to be supportive. He has no idea what he's really asking.
"Oh, but she'd be perfect for this," Maria interjected smoothly, her voice carrying that note of enthusiastic certainty that made my skin crawl. "Someone with Isabella's background and education would bring such credibility to the event. The donors would be impressed by her expertise."
Expertise I don't have.
The irony was almost laughable. Here was Maria, possibly plotting to expose me, while simultaneously praising qualities I didn't possess to the man I was deceiving. It was like being caught in some elaborate, twisted game where I didn't know the rules and everyone else held cards I couldn't see.
"The pieces really are exceptional this year," Maria continued, her tone growing more animated. "There's a collection of contemporary sculptures by emerging artists, some vintage jewelry pieces with fascinating provenance, and I believe there are even some Renaissance sketches that have never been publicly displayed before."
Renaissance sketches? Contemporary sculptures? Provenance? I barely knew what provenance meant in an art context, let alone how to discuss it intelligently in front of people who'd spent their lives studying such things.
I'm going to humiliate myself. Worse, I'm going to humiliate Vito.
The thought of standing in front of a room full of New York's art elite, pretending to know what I was talking about while Vito watched proudly from the audience, made my stomach twist with nausea. He believed in me, trusted me to represent the Romano family with grace and intelligence. How could I tell him that I was completely unqualified for the role he thought I was born to play?
"The timing is really ideal," Maria pressed on, apparently taking my silence as contemplation rather than mounting terror. "Next week gives us enough time for preparation, but not so much that anticipation becomes overwhelming."
Preparation. As if a week of cramming could somehow make up for years of education I'd never received. As if I could somehow transform myself from a medical student into an art expert in seven days.
But even as panic threatened to overwhelm me, another part of my brain was working furiously, trying to find a way out of this trap—if that's what it was.
What if I'm wrong? What if Maria is just being genuinely helpful?
The thought gave me pause. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe Maria really did think this would be a good opportunity for me to establish myself in New York society. Maybe she had no idea about my real identity and was simply trying to be supportive of Vito's new wife.
But then I caught the way she was watching me again, that careful, calculating attention that felt more like a scientist observing a specimen than a friend offering encouragement.
No. Something's wrong here. I can feel it.
"This would be quite a responsibility," I said carefully, buying myself time while my mind raced through possible responses. "The people attending these events have very high expectations."
It was true, and it was also the understatement of the century. The kind of people who attended charity auctions in New York weren't just wealthy—they were sophisticated, educated, and absolutely ruthless when it came to social hierarchies.
"Which is exactly why you'd be perfect," Maria said with that bright, encouraging smile that was starting to feel more menacing than friendly. "Your education speaks for itself, and I'm sure Vito would be happy to provide any additional context about specific donors and their preferences."
She's not going to let this go.
The realization hit me with cold certainty. Whatever Maria's motives, she was determined to see me accept this proposal. Which meant I had two choices: find a way to gracefully decline without arousing suspicion, or accept and hope I could somehow fake my way through an art auction without completely destroying my cover.
Neither option seemed particularly appealing.
I glanced at Vito again, noting the way he was watching me with that mixture of patience and expectation that made my heart ache. He thought he was married to Isabella Cohen, accomplished art student and society darling. He had no idea he'd actually bound himself to Sophia Cohen, medical student and complete fraud.
What would Isabella do?
The question came to me suddenly, cutting through the fog of panic that had been clouding my thoughts. Isabella was confident, sophisticated, maybe a little arrogant. She would never show uncertainty in front of someone like Maria. She would either accept the challenge with gracious confidence or decline with elegant authority.
She certainly wouldn't sit here sweating and looking like she was about to be sick.
I have to make a decision. And whatever I choose, I have to sell it completely.
Taking a deep breath, I forced my shoulders to relax and my expression to clear. Whatever Maria's game was, I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not when Vito was watching, not when my entire carefully constructed life depended on maintaining this deception.
"You're right about the timing," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "And the cause is certainly worthy. The Mercy Foundation does incredible work."
I was stalling, and I suspected both Maria and Vito knew it. But I needed a few more seconds to weigh my options, to figure out the least dangerous path forward.
"I appreciate the confidence you're showing in me," I continued, meeting Maria's gaze directly. "But something like this would require significant preparation. I'd want to be absolutely certain I could do justice to both the artists and the cause."
It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either. It was the kind of diplomatic non-answer that sophisticated people used to buy time while they figured out their real response.
Maria's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes—disappointment? Frustration? Or was I imagining things?
"Of course," she said smoothly. "Though I have complete confidence that someone with your background would rise to the occasion beautifully."
There it is again. 'Someone with your background.' She keeps emphasizing Isabella's education, Isabella's qualifications.
Vito shifted slightly in his chair, and I could feel his attention sharpening. He was picking up on the undercurrents in our conversation, even if he didn't understand what they meant.
"What exactly would be involved?" I asked, hoping to buy more time while I figured out how to handle this situation. "In terms of preparation and expectations?"
"Well," Maria began, her voice taking on an instructional tone, "you'd need to familiarize yourself with the specific pieces being auctioned. Most of the information would be provided in advance—artist backgrounds, historical context, estimated values. The foundation usually provides detailed notes for their speakers."
Detailed notes. That was something, at least. If I had comprehensive information about each piece, maybe I could memorize enough facts to get through the evening without completely embarrassing myself.
"And the audience?" I pressed. "What kind of expertise level should I expect from the bidders?"
"Mixed," Maria replied. "Some serious collectors who know exactly what they're looking for, but also plenty of people who are there more for the social aspect and the charity component. Not everyone will be an art expert."
That was marginally reassuring. Maybe I could get away with speaking in generalities, focusing more on the charitable aspects and less on technical art knowledge.
But what if someone asks me a direct question? What if there are real experts in the audience who want to discuss specific techniques or historical periods?
The thought made my palms sweat again. I was walking a tightrope without a net, and one wrong step would send everything crashing down.
"It really would be wonderful publicity for the Romano family," Maria added, as if sensing my continued hesitation. "Having the new Mrs. Romano make her debut at such a prestigious charitable event would send exactly the right message about your family's values and social position."
And there's the real pressure.
She was right, of course. Refusing to participate in high-profile charity events would reflect poorly on Vito and the Romano family name. But accepting and then failing spectacularly would be even worse.
I found myself trapped between two equally dangerous options, with Maria watching my every reaction and Vito waiting patiently for my decision.