Chapter 64
Vito's POV
Something was wrong with Isabella.
I'd seen her nervous before, but this was different. This was fear. The way her eyes kept moving between Maria and me, the tremor in her hands, the careful way she chose every word. It wasn't just stage fright.
What is she so afraid of?
I watched her face as she listened to Maria's proposal. She kept glancing at me like she wanted me to rescue her. But why? This was exactly what someone with her background should want.
Isabella Cohen had been raised for this life. Charity galas, art auctions, fancy social events. She should be excited to establish herself in New York society, to claim her place as Mrs. Romano.
Instead, she looked terrified.
Maybe she's intimidated by the Romano name.
I'd grown so used to my family's reputation that I sometimes forgot how overwhelming it could be. Isabella had married into one of the most powerful families in New York. The first impression she made would matter for everything.
She's worried about disappointing me.
The thought hit me hard. She was afraid of failing, of not living up to what everyone expected from Mrs. Romano. She was afraid of embarrassing herself and the family name.
That protective feeling I'd been having more and more roared to life in my chest.
Maria was still talking about the charity event, but I was barely listening. All my attention was on Isabella, watching her try to appear calm while clearly fighting panic.
She doesn't have to do this if she's not ready.
But as I watched her struggle, another idea came to me. Maybe what she needed wasn't rescue. Maybe she needed confidence. Support. The knowledge that I'd be there no matter what happened.
This could be exactly what she needs.
Isabella had been living on the edges of our marriage, never fully accepting her role as my wife. She moved through the estate like a ghost, present but not really there.
Maybe it was time she stopped hiding.
"Isabella will do beautifully," I said, cutting through Maria's explanations.
Both women turned to look at me. Isabella looked panicked, Maria looked satisfied.
"I appreciate your confidence in her abilities, Maria. This would be an excellent opportunity for Isabella to establish herself in the community."
Isabella's eyes went wide. I could see her about to protest. Before she could speak, I reached over and took her hand, squeezing gently.
"Of course, the final decision is yours, tesoro," I said, meeting her eyes. "But I have complete faith in you. You have the education, the intelligence, and the grace to handle anything."
I believe in you. Even if you don't believe in yourself.
Maria clapped her hands together. "Wonderful! I knew you'd see what a perfect opportunity this is. The foundation will be thrilled."
Isabella still looked sick, but she managed a smile. "Thank you both. I'll do my best to prepare thoroughly."
"I'll make sure you have everything you need," I promised. Whatever research, support, or resources she needed, I would provide them all.
She's going to succeed. I'll make sure of it.
After Maria left, I found myself alone with Isabella in the study. She stood by the window with her back to me, tension in every line of her body.
"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," I said quietly. "I can call Maria tomorrow and tell her you've changed your mind."
She turned to face me. I was surprised by the determination in her eyes. "No. You're right. This is exactly what I should be doing. I just need some time to prepare."
"Whatever you need. We'll hire a consultant if necessary, someone who can explain the pieces and give you background information."
Something flickered across her face. Relief, maybe. Then she nodded. "That would be helpful. Thank you."
There's still something she's not telling me.
But I'd learned not to push Isabella when she wasn't ready. She would open up when she was ready. Until then, I'd simply make sure she had what she needed to succeed.
"Get some rest," I said, moving closer to kiss her forehead. "Tomorrow we'll start planning your debut as New York's newest art expert."
Sophia's POV
The moment I closed the bedroom door, I collapsed against it. My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn the lock.
What have I done? What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Vito had answered for me. He'd made the decision I was too scared to make, committing me to something that could destroy everything. And the worst part was, he'd done it because he believed in me. Because he thought I was capable of something I absolutely was not.
He thinks I'm Isabella. He thinks I know about art and auctions.
I stumbled to the bed and sat down, burying my face in my hands. One week. I had one week to somehow become an art expert, or at least fake it well enough to fool a room full of wealthy New Yorkers.
This is impossible. I'm going to humiliate myself and expose everything.
I needed help. I needed someone who could guide me through this, someone who could help me sound like I knew what I was talking about.
David.
David might be a doctor, but he was educated and cultured. He went to museums and gallery openings. He would know enough about art to help me understand the basics.
I grabbed my phone and typed a text:
Emergency. Need your help with something. Can you call me?
I stared at the screen, waiting. When my phone finally buzzed, I nearly dropped it:
In surgery. Emergency appendectomy. Won't be free until tomorrow morning at earliest. Everything okay?
No, everything is definitely not okay.
I wanted to scream. David was the one person I could trust with the truth, and he was stuck in an operating room.
Fine. Handle it later. Focus on patient.
I typed back the lie and tossed the phone aside. I needed another solution.
Think, Sophia. Think.
I started pacing. I could claim to be sick on auction day, but that would just postpone the problem. I could confess everything to Vito right now, but that would destroy the marriage and put Alfonso's medical care at risk.
Or I could figure out how to fake my way through this auction.
How hard can it really be? People bid on things, I point out their good qualities, someone wins.
But I knew I was kidding myself. Art auctions weren't just about selling pretty objects. They were about history and technique and a hundred other things that serious collectors would expect me to understand.
Wait.
The thought hit me suddenly. Alfonso. The art therapy sessions at the hospital. Those folders of information I'd gathered when researching treatment options for his recovery.
I'd spent weeks reading about how art could help rehabilitation, how different artistic styles could affect healing. I'd collected articles about museum programs for patients, studies about art appreciation, even some basic guides to art history.
It's not much, but it's something.
I hurried to the closet and pulled boxes down from the shelf, dumping their contents onto the bed. Somewhere in this mess had to be the information I'd gathered about art therapy.
Please let me have kept those articles.
I moved frantically through stacks of papers, sorting through therapy protocols and medical studies. Then, buried beneath a folder of research, I found it. A manila envelope labeled "Art Therapy Resources" in my handwriting.
I tore it open, spilling contents across the bed. Articles about art history and psychology. Pamphlets from museums about educational programs. A basic guide to identifying artistic periods that the hospital's art therapist had recommended.
This could work. Maybe.
It wasn't comprehensive, and it wasn't the detailed expertise that Isabella would have had. But it was a foundation. Something that might keep me from making obvious mistakes.
I picked up the first article and began to read, desperate to absorb every piece of information. Outside, I could hear Vito moving around in his study, probably planning how to support his wife's debut.
If only he knew he was planning the potential destruction of everything.
But there was no going back now. The decision had been made. All I could do was study as hard as I'd ever studied for any medical exam and hope I could pull off the performance of my lifetime.
One week. I have one week to become Isabella Cohen, art expert.
I opened the first file and began to read, praying that somewhere in these pages I would find the key to saving my marriage and my secret.
The clock showed 2:47 AM when I finally looked up from the papers covering my bed. My eyes were burning, my head was pounding, and I'd filled three pages with notes about art periods, famous artists, and auction terminology.
It's not enough. Not nearly enough.
But it was a start. Tomorrow, once David was free, I would have help. Between his knowledge and these basic resources, maybe I could find a way to survive this test.
I have to try. For Alfonso. For the family. For Vito.
I was going to find a way to be the woman everyone expected Isabella Romano to be.
Even if I had no idea how to make that happen.