"Then who am I?" The question came out as barely a whisper, vulnerable and raw.
His gaze softened almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, she thought she saw something tender flicker in those dark depths. "You're the daughter of Antonio Moretti. You're someone who belongs in that room."
The name hit her like a physical blow, memories threatening to surface like drowning victims fighting for air. Isabella felt tears threaten, her throat tight with emotion. "I don't remember being that person."
"Then fake it." Matteo's voice softened slightly, the harsh edges smoothed away. "Just for tonight. Can you do that?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady.
"Good." The car door opened with a soft click, letting in the cool afternoon air that carried scents of expensive perfume and fresh flowers from a nearby vendor. He came around to open her door, his hand warm and solid as it appeared in her line of vision. "Remember what Mrs. Russo taught you. Shoulders back. Head high."
