Chapter 6 - The Secret His Nephew Couldn’t Tell Him
“He wants to paint?”
Adrien said nothing.
I leaned back.
“That’s the terrible secret?”
“He has been accepted into a summer arts program in New York.”
“That sounds good.”
“He didn’t tell anyone he applied.”
“Less good.”
“He forged Niko’s signature on one form.”
“There it is.”
Adrien rubbed his jaw.
“He thought I would refuse.”
“Would you have?”
“Yes.”
I appreciated the honesty.
“Why?”
“He has responsibilities.”
“He’s sixteen.”
“In my family, sixteen is old enough to understand responsibility.”
“Responsibility and predetermined destiny aren’t the same thing.”
His eyes lifted.
“I didn’t ask for analysis.”
“You came to my shop.”
“For a suit.”
“Poor planning.”
A reluctant breath escaped him.
Not quite laughter.
I looked toward the door.
“Why did Luca think you’d say no?”
“Because I would have.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Adrien’s face closed slightly.
I waited.
Silence worked better on people than interrogation.
Eventually, he said, “My brother died when Luca was eight.”
I hadn’t known that.
“I’m sorry.”
“Marco was... different from me.”
“How?”
“Easier.”
The word seemed difficult for Adrien.
“He laughed loudly. Trusted quickly. Made decisions emotionally.”
“You say that as though it’s a diagnosis.”
“Sometimes it was.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“So you helped raise Luca.”
“Yes.”
“And decided that meant designing his life.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You make everything sound offensive.”
“I have a gift.”
He stood.
The fitting had been forgotten.
“Luca is talented academically. He can attend Northwestern, Chicago, Notre Dame—”
“And paint.”
“He can paint anywhere.”
“You know that isn’t what he means.”
Adrien walked toward the window.
Outside, Michigan Avenue traffic moved beneath gray clouds.
For several moments, he said nothing.
Then quietly:
“My father gave my brother choices.”
I waited.
“He chose badly.”
There it was.
Not control.
Fear wearing control’s coat.
“You think giving Luca freedom means you might lose him.”
Adrien turned.
“I did not say that.”
“No.”
“You enjoy interpreting me.”
“Only when you make it easy.”
His expression hardened.
I stood.
“Adrien, I’m not telling you how to raise him.”
“You’re doing a convincing imitation.”
“I’m telling you what I saw when he walked through that door.”
“What?”
“A boy who had practiced a conversation a hundred times and lost his nerve the moment you looked at him.”
That hurt him.
I saw it.
Good.
Some truths should.
I softened my voice.
“He loves you.”
Adrien stared past me.
“I know.”
“He’s also afraid of disappointing you.”
A long pause.
“That is different from being afraid of you.”
Adrien looked toward the mirror.
Maybe he remembered Teresa’s words.
Before everyone became afraid of him.
I crossed my arms.
“You asked what your old suit was lying about.”
His attention returned to me.
“It said fear was the same as respect.”
The silence afterward lasted nearly a minute.
Then Adrien picked up his jacket.
“Finish the fitting.”
“That’s your emotional response?”
“I’m considering what you said.”
“While wearing half a jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
He stepped back onto the platform.
I fitted the sleeves.
Neither of us spoke.
When we finished, he left without another word.
I assumed I had gone too far.
Wouldn’t have been the first time.
At eight-thirty that evening, I locked the shop.
A black sedan was parked across the street.
My first thought was Adrien.
Then the window lowered.
Luca leaned out from the passenger seat.
“Claire!”
I crossed the street.
Adrien was driving.
Driving.
Not a security man.
Not Niko.
Adrien.
Luca looked thrilled.
“We’re going to buy paint.”
I looked at Adrien.
He looked irritated that I looked pleased.
“Temporary supplies,” he said.
“Of course.”
“The New York program is not decided.”
“Clearly.”
Luca whispered loudly, “He already paid the deposit.”
Adrien closed his eyes.
“Luca.”
The boy grinned.
I stepped back.
“Have fun.”
Adrien glanced toward me.
“Thank you.”
Two simple words.
But his voice had changed.
Less guarded.
“Goodnight,” I said.
The car pulled away.
I stood on the sidewalk longer than necessary.
Something warm moved through my chest.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
The next few weeks settled into a rhythm.
Adrien came for fittings.
Luca occasionally came with him.
Niko came whether invited or not.
Teresa began sending me clients and homemade biscotti in equal measure.
Business grew.
The fake reviews slowed after enough real clients overwhelmed them.
The building sale remained uncertain.
And Veronica disappeared.
That should have relieved me.
Instead, it made me nervous.
People like Veronica did not vanish.
They repositioned.
Then came the charity auction at the Moretti family’s private residence.
I had no intention of attending.
Teresa had other plans.
“You made my dress,” she said over the phone. “You’re coming.”
“I make lots of dresses. I don’t attend everyone’s events.”
“You’re attending mine.”
“That sounded like Adrien.”
“Where do you think he learned it?”
I went.
The Moretti residence stood above Lake Michigan, all limestone and glass, elegant enough to make wealth look understated.
I wore a black dress I had made for myself.
No sequins.
No apology.
Adrien saw me the moment I entered.
I knew because his conversation stopped.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He crossed the room.
“You came.”
“Your aunt issued a threat involving cannoli.”
“That sounds like her.”
His eyes moved briefly over my dress.
“You made that.”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“You look—”
“Careful.”
His mouth curved.
“Different.”
I stared.
“That is the same insult you gave me after your first fitting.”
“I deserved that.”
“You did.”
He held out his arm.
“Teresa is looking for you.”
I hesitated.
Then took it.
The room noticed.
Of course it did.
Whispers followed us.
I ignored them.
Until I saw Veronica standing near the staircase.
She wore gold.
Beautiful.
Controlled.
She watched Adrien’s hand resting near mine.
Then smiled.
Not at me.
At the woman beside her.
A photographer.
Ten minutes later, I learned why.
A local society reporter approached.
“Claire Hart?”
“Yes?”
“Could I ask you about your relationship with Mr. Moretti?”
“No.”
She blinked.
“Just one question.”
“That was one.”
I walked away.
By morning, the headline read:
MYSTERY SEAMSTRESS CAPTURES CHICAGO POWER BROKER’S ATTENTION
The article barely mentioned my work.
It mentioned my size twice.
One sentence called me “an unconventional companion for the famously selective Moretti.”
I stared at the screen.
Emma stood behind me.
“Oh, I hate them.”
I closed the article.
The bell rang.
Adrien entered.
He had seen it.
His face told me.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You are about to apologize for something you didn’t write.”
His jaw tightened.
“They used you to write about me.”
“No.”
I stood.
“They used you to write about my body.”
He went silent.
There was a difference.
One I needed him to understand.
“They called you unconventional.”
“I know.”
“They’re idiots.”
“That helps enormously.”
“I can have the article—”
“Stop.”
He stopped.
“Do you know what I need?”
His eyes held mine.
“Tell me.”
“I need people to see my work before they see who stands beside me.”
Adrien nodded slowly.
Then he did something I didn’t expect.
He stepped away.
No argument.
No rescue.
Just space.
“I understand.”
May you like
And because he gave me space, I was completely unprepared for what happened three nights later when Veronica Vale walked into my shop after closing, holding a torn evening gown and looking close to tears.
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