Vivienne Santoro is everything I expected and worse.
She opens the door herself—tall, elegant, wearing cream silk and pearls like it's a casual Friday instead of a calculated performance. Her dark hair is pulled back in a perfect chignon. Her makeup is flawless. She looks like she walked out of a magazine about women who lunch and donate to charities and sit on museum boards.
She looks at Aurelio with warmth. Then her eyes slide to me, and the temperature drops ten degrees.
"Mother, this is Cassia Monroe," Aurelio says, his hand firm on my lower back.
"Of course." Vivienne's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Cassia. What an... unusual name."
First shot fired.
"It's the scientific name for cinnamon," I say, keeping my voice steady. "My mother liked spices."
"How rustic." The word drips with condescension. "Well, come in. Dinner will be ready shortly."
The house is even more intimidating inside. Marble floors. Crown molding. A crystal chandelier that probably costs more than my college tuition. Original artwork on walls that seem to go up forever.
I don't belong here. Every cell in my body knows it.
Dominic appears from a hallway, face lighting up when he sees me. "Cassia! Wonderful to see you again." He kisses my cheek, warm and genuine. "Come, let me show you the library. We have a first edition collection you'll love."
"Dominic, dinner is in twenty minutes," Vivienne says sharply.
"Then we have twenty minutes." He winks at me and leads me away from her glacial stare.
***
The library is three stories of books. Actual floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a spiral staircase and leather chairs and the smell of old paper and possibility.
"This is incredible," I breathe.
"My grandfather collected them," Dominic says. "Started when he first came to America. Couldn't speak English, so he bought books and taught himself." He runs his hand along a shelf. "Every book here represents something he learned. Something he became."
He's telling me a story. Not about books. About belonging.
"Cassia," he says gently. "My wife can be... protective. Particular about who enters our family. But don't let her make you feel small. You're remarkable. Aurelio sees it. I see it. She will too, eventually."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then that's her loss, not yours."
***
Dinner is seven courses of subtle warfare.
The dining room table seats twelve but it's just the four of us, spread out like we're strangers at a restaurant instead of a family meal. Vivienne sits at one end, Dominic at the other. Aurelio and I are across from each other in the middle—close enough to see each other, too far to touch.
Calculated, I realize. She separated us on purpose.
The first course arrives. Some kind of soup I can't identify.
I watch Vivienne pick up her spoon. Copy her movements exactly. Start eating.
"So Cassia," Vivienne says, her voice polite and poisonous. "Aurelio tells me you're on scholarship at Riverside."
"Yes ma'am. Full academic scholarship."
"How industrious. And your parents? What do they do?"
Here it comes. The question I've been dreading.
"My father isn't in my life. My mother left when I was young. I live with my grandmother. She's a nurse."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Vivienne dabs her mouth with a linen napkin. "I see. How unfortunate."
Two words. But they contain volumes. *Unfortunate* that I'm poor. *Unfortunate* that my family is broken. *Unfortunate* that I exist in her son's orbit.
"I don't find it unfortunate," I say, and there's an edge in my voice I can't quite hide. "My grandmother raised me with love and taught me the value of hard work. I'm proud of where I come from."
Aurelio's foot finds mine under the table. A warning? Support? Both?
"Of course," Vivienne says smoothly. "I meant no offense."
But she did. We both know she did.
The second course arrives. Fish I don't recognize on a bed of something green. More silverware than I know what to do with.
"What are your college plans, Cassia?" Dominic asks, trying to ease the tension.
"I'm applying to BU, UMass, Northeastern. Wherever offers the best financial aid."
"Very practical," Vivienne says. "Aurelio, of course, will attend Harvard. Legacy admission. His father and grandfather both went. It's tradition."
The message is clear: *He has a path. A legacy. A future planned. You're not part of it.*
"Cassia should apply to Harvard too," Aurelio says suddenly. "With her grades and her writing—"
"Harvard is quite expensive," Vivienne cuts in. "Without significant financial aid, it would be... difficult."
"We could help," Dominic offers. "The Santoro Foundation offers scholarships—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. Everyone looks at me. "Thank you, but I can handle my own college applications and expenses."
"Cassia—" Aurelio starts.
"I don't need charity."
The word hangs in the air. Ugly. True.
Vivienne's smile is ice. "Well. How proud."
***
By the fifth course, I've stopped tasting the food. My stomach is in knots. Every question Vivienne asks feels like a test I'm failing.
Where did you summer? *I didn't. I worked.*
Do you sail? *No.*
Have you been to Europe? *I've never left Massachusetts.*
Each answer widens the canyon between us.
Aurelio tries to defend me, redirect, change subjects. But it's like trying to stop a flood with his hands.
Finally, mercifully, dinner ends.
"Cassia, would you help me clear the plates?" Vivienne asks.
It's not a request.
In the kitchen—marble counters, professional appliances, bigger than my entire apartment—she turns to me.
"You seem like a sweet girl," she says, and there's something almost kind in her voice. Almost. "But Cassia, you must see this is impossible."
"What is?"
"You and Aurelio. You're from different worlds. Different backgrounds. Different... everything."
"He doesn't care about that."
"He's seventeen. He doesn't know what he cares about." She arranges the plates in the sink with precise movements. "Right now, you're exciting. Different. But eventually, he'll realize what this relationship costs him. The complications. The judgment. The way people will always see you as the charity case who trapped the Santoro heir."
Each word is a knife. Clean. Surgical. Lethal.
"I haven't trapped anyone," I say, voice shaking.
"Not yet. But these situations have a way of becoming... complicated. Unplanned pregnancies. Rushed decisions. I've seen it before."
She thinks I'm trying to get pregnant to trap him. The realization makes me want to vomit.
"I would never—"
"I'm not saying you would intentionally. I'm saying these things happen when young people from different circumstances get involved. And Cassia, I won't let you derail my son's future."
"I'm not trying to derail anything. I care about him."
"I'm sure you do. But caring isn't enough. Love isn't enough. In five years, ten years, when the novelty wears off and reality sets in—when you're struggling to fit into his world and he's resenting having to explain you—you'll both be miserable."
She turns to face me fully. Her eyes aren't cruel exactly. They're resigned. Like she's seen this movie before and knows how it ends.
"I'm not asking you to break up with him today. I'm asking you to think about what's best for both of you. Before this goes too far. Before someone gets hurt."
"Someone's already getting hurt," I whisper. "Me. Right now."
For a second—just a second—something flickers across her face. Not quite regret. But close.
Then it's gone.
"Better a small hurt now than a devastating one later. Think about it, Cassia."
***
When we leave an hour later, I'm numb.
Aurelio drives in silence. His jaw is tight. His hands grip the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it.
"I'm sorry," he finally says. "She was horrible. I should have—"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. The way she talked to you, the questions—"
"She's right."
He pulls the car over so fast the tires screech. We're somewhere in the North End, parked under a streetlight.
"What?"
"She's right. We're from different worlds. I don't know which fork to use at a seven-course dinner. I've never been to Europe. I don't sail or summer anywhere or know how to make small talk about wine regions."
"None of that matters—"
"It matters to her. It'll matter to everyone in your life eventually. Your friends, your family's business partners, everyone who expects you to marry someone like Sterling Hayes."
"I don't want Sterling. I want you."
"For now. But your mom is right—eventually you'll resent having to explain me. Having to defend me. Having to watch me struggle to fit into a world I'll never really belong in."
"Cassia—"
"Take me home. Please."
His face crumples. "Don't do this. Don't let her win."
"She already won. The second I walked into that house and realized I didn't belong there, she won."
The drive to Roxbury is silent. When he pulls up to my building, I get out before he can stop me.
"Cassia, wait—"
But I'm already walking away. Up the steps. Through the door. Away from the boy who makes me believe in impossible things and the mother who reminds me why they're impossible.
I make it to my room before I start crying.
Grandma Rosa finds me twenty minutes later, curled on my bed, sobbing into my pillow.
She doesn't ask questions. Just lies down next to me, pulls me close, and lets me break.
"I told you, baby," she whispers. "I told you to guard your heart."
But it's too late.
My heart is already his.
And I don't know how to get it back.