Chapter 2

As night fell, Elena was reminded that she would have dinner with her father’s new wife, Rebecca. This was a woman she despised so much. A woman she believed was manipulative, dangerous, and deceitful. She despised her daughter, Isla, as well.

Elena slowly strode out of her family’s grapevines and went to their magnificent mansion. Whenever she was sad, she strolled around her family’s vineyards, admiring the cluster of Pinot Noir hanging on the grape trees or the Merlot or the Cabernet Sauvignon. And she, most times, found herself depressed these days. A feeling unrelated to her husband, Fabian, and the weak sales she experienced last week in her clothing store. Rebecca and Isla were to blame. She sighed. Elena regretted her mother’s passing and wished that her father had never thought to marry another woman. She got to the front door of the house and entered inside.

The accentuating hues—a contrast of black and white, and the expensive and dramatic furniture and furnishings in sight cloaked the interior with opulence. It was a vision of extraordinary artworks and paintings—a 30,000-square-foot house of Calacatta flooring. Reluctantly, Elena walked to the dining room. The classic Italian-style dining table with bespoke decorations and carves was set with fajitas, mac & cheese, mashed potatoes, pasta, cheesecake, pot roast, and chicken pot pie.

Her father was already present at the table, and so was Fabian, who gestured to her to sit beside him. The butler, Armano, a bald-head older man, only a few years younger than her father, asked her father if he wanted anything else. He said no and dismissed Armano. Her father’s blue eyes were as piercing as they always were. The fact that he’d eaten nothing of the food on the table irritated Elena.

“Seeing as your wife and her daughter aren’t down yet, do we have to wait for them to make their usual grand entrance before we start eating?” she said viciously.

But her father ignored her. His gaze remained on the staircase leading to all the rooms in the house. She boiled, her face turning red. He was ready to wait for them to come down for dinner—whenever they were ready. He’d been shunning her jabs at them for a long time now. And he knew how much she hated being ignored. Fabian gently squeezed her palm to calm her down.

Finally, Rebecca, the old witch, was in sight. She was adorned in a red dress and a ton of gold accessories. Her platinum blonde hair, sleek and long, cascaded down her shoulders. It reminded Elena of how her mother used to descend those same stairs. Rebecca was 53 years old, the same age her mother would have been if she were still alive. Isla walked behind her—wearing the same shade of red and donning a poker face.

Elena turned to face her father. He glistened in awe of Rebecca. His gaze was on her, unfazed and adoring. But why? Why had he become wholly dazzled by this woman? What had become of the obstinate and difficult man she knew her father to be?

Excitedly, he pulled back a chair for Rebecca to sit while Isla sat beside her. Elena scoffed and fought to stay sane at the table. She just couldn’t stand them and everything about them. And as though unbothered by her facial display of fury, Isla and Rebecca sat across from her and Fabian, with her father at the head of the table. Elena became even more irate as Isla’s chestnut eyes peered intently into hers. She quickly averted Isla’s gaze, struggling to maintain her calm.

It was bad enough that they were leeching off her family. They couldn’t even put up a good attitude while at it. Worse, her father saw nothing wrong in how badly they behaved.

“Let’s eat,” he said, breaking the silence.

But Elena’s appetite fizzled. She wanted to throw the food in their faces.

She’d thought of moving out of the mansion and leaving Napa Valley for good but had afterward decided against it. She wouldn’t give Rebecca and Isla the satisfaction of having the house and her father all to themselves.

“Meg did wonders with this food,” Rebecca said, putting some of the pasta into her mouth.

“Yeah, she did,” her father said.

“Your food might get cold, sweetie.” Rebecca gazed at her.

Elena snorted. What gave her the right to call her sweetie? She detested it. What gave her the authority to even talk to her? They didn’t get along, and she would never accept Rebecca.

“I think Fabian and I have lost our appetites,” Elena said, rising to her feet. “There’s so much negative energy around this table.”

With her hand, she motioned at Fabian to get up.

“Actually, I think I’ll keep eating,” he said.

She was stunned and unable to believe the words that had just come out of his mouth. What did he mean? He was supposed to be on her side and no one else’s. She controlled herself from lashing out at him.

“Well then, I’ll leave you all to suit yourselves,” she snapped and stormed up the stairs. She found her way to her large room—the one she shared with Fabian.

How could he? How could he do that to her? She walked past the gold wooden Cleopatra chairs in her sitting room and got to her bedroom. Fuming, she sat on her California king bed and folded her arms. Fabian had never done this to her before, had never humiliated her in front of Rebecca and Isla. She tried to hold back her tears. Her mother would be turning in her grave, she was sure.

Elena wished Leo was here with her. Sometimes, she wished he’d never left Napa for Florence. He would have seen that Rebecca was dangerous and bad for their family. And he would have joined her to try to pit their father against Rebecca. The door pushed open, and Fabian walked in like nothing had happened. Elena wanted to rip him to shreds.