Harriet D'Angelo

Fama e Infamia || ft. HDA

Vivianne Sloane knows a thing or two about ‘research’ in Verona. 

Ever since she was made consigliera to Cosimo she had taken it upon herself to grow the network of informants that was traditionally handed down with the role. Largely through her efforts, that network had extended like a spider’s web to the outreaches of Italy and even beyond it, to various countries overseas. Where she’d once regarded her accomplishments with a certain degree of feral pride, more and more lately she’s felt uninspired by them, and the mob’s endless avarice for more.

It reflects in her relationship to Harriet, too. Where in the past it was something of a game to try to ply her confidante for intel (especially given how much of it Harriet tended to innocently come across) — she’s largely abandoned the pursuit lately.

And thus any talk of the Ivarrsons drift by with only passing interest, her attention more piqued, comparatively, when the conversation turns back to Harriet herself. 

‘I’m happy,’ the woman promises, equal parts gentleness and firmness. Vivianne understands the delivery for what it is; an insistence that she knows what she’s doing, and won’t abide unnecessary questioning on her romantic choices, even if they are well-intentioned. Rather reluctantly, Vivianne supposes she’s the wrong person to question them anyway, given her own notorious history for avoiding romance in all its forms, and current entanglement with an unavailable ex-fiancé. 

So she lets her suspicion dwindle to the back of her mind, all while reserving a rather unloving difference of opinion when it comes to the numerous benefits of a little good retaliation. If Harriet suffers – be it on account of one Tomas Sabello, or any other person – then she’ll be the first to execute swift vengeance in her friend’s name. 

The Underboss suspects the woman knows it already, and so doesn’t press the topic further. With such middle-ground brokered between them, they finish their treats in peace and head back out into the festive streets of the city, arm-in-arm.

They’ve always been good at that, Vivianne thinks fondly to herself; good at finding a middle ground despite being polar opposites. “Come then, my darling D’Angelo,” Vivianne invites with rare cheer, huddling closer for warmth. “Let’s see this dress of yours that I suspect will have the rest of Verona eating their hearts out… It’s why I keep you close, sai? What greater weapon have I against my enemies? Inoltre, they should all be grateful you come in such pretty packaging. Lead the way, cara mia.”

lavolumnia·:

Vivianne snorts. “Has Lucien ever looked anything but miserable to you?… Certainly not the face of someone who’d sing their partner’s praises in bed. Then again, they’re still married. Do you think it’s masochism?” She asks sweetly, sipping her coffee.

If only the conversation could stay so nonchalant when Everett’s name slips deftly into it. She doesn’t expect the stern note that enters Harriet’s voice; so rare that it still retains its effect on the Capulet; forcing her to take note, and consider her next words more carefully. “It is, if their lover hurt them first.” She points out gently as she sets down her mug. It’s a balancing act; a set of scales continually weighing justice from injustice. Vivianne’s always considered herself at the mercy of what she’s deserved at any given point, and so, justified everyone else’s actions accordingly. Everett and Harriet have both proven startling exceptions to that rule — Giving and giving to her, even at times when it was wholly without merit.

She doesn’t understand why they do it.

“Two months?” She echoes, equally surprised at the slip of a confession. “My my, even more discreet than I suspected.” In truth it’s to be expected of a woman like Harriet. “I’d have thought a few weeks, at the most.” She muses openly, watching fondly as Harriet stabs a fork eagerly through her cake once it’s set before her. It’s the little things that always get to her about Harriet, the quiet constants. Her stubborn loves, her simple, child-like joys… Is it so far-fetched to think I’d want to protect you? Vivianne wonders to herself as she watches her friend with hidden affection. 

“Well?… Are you truly happy then? Tell me honestly, cara mia, and I promise I won’t put a bullet through his leg if I don’t like your answer.”

--

“It might be research,” the blonde muses, mouth twitching in subtle indication that these indulgences - speculating about the lives of others - were reserved for very few people in her life. “He could be writing a future bestselling book.” No secret that Lucien was one of the better-known therapists in Verona and, from the few pieces she had gathered regarding the puzzle that was his other half, she imagined an unhappy marriage could have done a lot for his career. 

“Not everything warrants retaliation, cara mia.” There were countless things that the D’Angelo woman could have been referring to in the moment, though the note of finality that enters her tone indicates that she didn’t intend on pursuing the topic further, but her intention - as was often the case - was to address her friend’s well-being. It was something that had taken her time to come to terms with, that leaving things lie (reluctant as she might have been to do it at times) was sometimes the best option. 

“Two months... a couple of weeks...,” she trails off, a hand covering her mouth while she speaks and simultaneously attempts to finish her mouthful of cake, the half-hearted shrug that punctuated her sentence an indication that they weren’t that different. “I am,” the response is gentle, the softening of her expression that accompanied it visible as she smiles at Vivianne. “If it changes, you’ll be the first to know.” Harriet promises, head canting to one side in mild amusement at the thought of her - of all people - supporting her dearest friend putting a bullet in someone because they had hurt her, so far from her character and unlikely as it was to happen she couldn’t help but humour the thought for a moment.

lavolumnia·:

‘Nevertheless the politician, I’ve seen him at the Dark Lady.’

It’s a useful tidbit of information, the kind the Underboss pockets discreetly for later investigation. In her line of work, information is power, and no bit of knowledge goes without pliable potential. She’d be a fool to overlook this detail. It’s convenient that she’s been twisting Ronan’s arm enough as it stands, any more leaks like this and she might just tear it clean off…An enticing possibility.

But Ronan, at the Dark Lady… She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I’d be very intrigued to know if his husband is aware of his extramarital excursions. Nonetheless, the fact that the statesman can’t keep it in his pants doesn’t prove him a liar when it comes to what he shared about Troilus.” She lets the actor’s mob alias drop off her tongue with equal parts disdain, a reminder that up until very recently, he, too, wore the label of Montague; making his trustworthiness equally flimsy in Vivianne’s eyes. 

‘Just because my… excursions are discussed in the papers and yours are not, doesn’t mean we should gloss over them, hmm?’

“It isn’t the same,” She replies as if on automatic, before she’s even had the chance to decide on how it’s different. But it is. Very, very, different. For one, there’s no future for her and Everett, only a glimmering, melancholic past. She knows it well enough, but that isn’t the only thing that makes them different. “If Everett hurt me, it was deserved. Warranted, because of my own actions. The same cannot be said for you, cara, who’d never hurt a fly.” Come to think of it, she wouldn’t half-mind if Harriet bled the actor of his supposed heart. It would serve him right, Vivianne decides, for his treatment of Juliana. But she very much fears that if someone’s to do the injuring, it’ll be he, and not Harriet who deals the blow. 

“We can discuss Everett all you’d like, though I resent that it should be in the same breath as that-… Actor.” She settles on the innocuous descriptor, reluctantly cowed by the warning in Harriet’s otherwise gentle eyes. Her cigarette changes hands, and she reaches across the table to find the woman’s wrist, her own fingers brushing feather-light against it. “I know you don’t jump into these matters lightly. It’s one of the things I like best about you… I just want you to be aware, before you jump.”

I don’t want you to jump at all, she frets to herself privately. But Vivianne keeps the addendum to herself, knowing exactly how it’ll sound if spoken aloud.

--

“It’s likely,” she muses, as a slice of cake is presented to her which Harriet promptly stabs her fork into, “though i imagine he feigns ignorance if he is aware.” Though not one to indulge in gossip often - preferring a non-committal hum when broached with the subject - with Vivianne it’s different. “Besides, the statesman could be dreadful in bed,” amusement twists the corners of her mouth, slow as it grows and lifts them upward, glancing toward the other to catch her reaction. Montague by association does not a Montague make, it’s a momentary thought, because had that been the case, Hermione would be as good as a Capulet. She doesn’t say this, however. 

“It was not,” there’s a sudden firmness to her voice, something that can’t be ignored, brown stare sharpening while holding the other woman’s gaze. “No one deserves to be hurt by someone they loved.” Voice softens at her own admittance, something that hit closer to home than she would have liked, a knife that skimmed the edge of her nerves; just short of hitting it, simultaneously guaranteed to with the most minute of movements. Doubt was plentiful whether or not the past tense was the correct one to use in this instance, but anticipating Vivianne’s reaction had she elected to discuss her feelings toward Everett in the present tense, it seemed like the safer choice. A sigh leaves her, gentle, lips upturning against her better judgement at the choice of descriptor her friend uses for her. 

They toast. 

‘To… Something more than friendship, and being all in,’ Harriet proposes cheekily, and he clinks his glass with hers, eyes crinkling with mirth before he knocks it back. He’s so excited at the prospect that he drains his prosecco in one go and sets the glass down again with a cheerful ‘whoop!’. A couple of the restaurant staff look in his direction, clearly bemused — but he doesn’t care. 

For the first time in a very long time, he has something to look forward to. Someone. And not just anyone, but a woman whom he’s beginning to wish he had met much, much sooner in life. And yet something tells Tomas that if he were to voice that sentiment to her, Harriet, in her persistent positivity, would tell him that there’s a reason they’ve met now, and that maybe it was meant to happen exactly this way.

… Or maybe he’s just a dreamer, through and through. 

Either way, Tomas feels like he’s buoyed up to cloud nine right now. They split some dessert, they finish dining, they dance (questionably) to a playlist set on shuffle on his phone. And it’s the best night he’s had in months. Every time Harriet grins he feels his heart skip a beat. By the time their booking’s come to an end, he doesn’t want to leave. But reluctantly he does, helping Harriet into her jacket as he thanks the staff for all the strings they pulled to make the private dinner possible. 

He’s close enough to walk to his hotel, but Harriet’s come in a taxi, so he calls her one. He doesn’t want to break the spell tonight by moving too fast, too soon. It’s his most wretchedly-repetitive mistake, and he doesn’t want to risk it, this time. So he pays for Harriet’s trip upfront, ignoring her protests as he drags her playfully over to the passenger’s side door, before turning to face her. 

“Thank you for coming out tonight on such short notice. And congratulations again on your mini-milestone. We’ll have to plan something extra-special for the six-month mark. Your work’s lucky to have you, you know.” Tomas squeezes her palm, and raises one hand to the crook of her throat, thumb brushing softly against her skin. “… And I’m lucky too.” He leans in at that, to press a kiss against her cheek, followed by the other, and then, ever so gently, a fleeting one against her mouth. 

“Sweet dreams, bellissima… I’ll text you in the morning.”

lavolumnia·:

‘I like him,’ Harriet admits, and Vivianne has to dig her fingernails into her palms to keep from spouting out ‘but why?’… For all that Harriet is a wonderfully open book, she knows when to snap sweetly, politely shut if pushed too hard on topics in which she anticipates a disagreement. More than anything, the woman is a peacekeeper, and hates anything that might threaten that peace.

Which is a conundrum for Vivianne, who almost always– as if by her very nature– threatens peace, in some way or another.

Tomas Sabello… The name belongs to a man whom she doesn’t like and whom she respects even less. It’s a harsh sentiment to break to such a close friend, but the alternative– to lie through her teeth–wouldn’t make her much of a friend at all.

“He charmed Juliana. She was utterly convinced the sun rose with him each morning, at least for a while. Of course, the minute he changed his mind– whether because he’s a coward or because he’s a narcissist – he wouldn’t give her the time of day. And it isn’t just that,” The Underboss continues, shifting in her seat as she takes another drag from her cigarette. “That Montague snake, Ivarrson, told me the only reason he’d flattered her in the first place was for the social connection. A piece of her power, if you will.” Granted, she couldn’t trust Ronan any further than she could throw him, but he had no reason to lie about the husband of a fellow Montague. 

Since then, her muted contempt for the actor had turned full-blown loathing.

“I want to ensure your happiness, cara, and guard against anyone or anything that might bring you pain.” Vivianne adds after a beat, leaning forward to tap her cigarette gently against the ashtray. “… Can you really fault me for that?”

--

One forged from fire, the other from ice, two sides of the same coin that bared their teeth, or hid them, depending on the situation called for. Harriet did not dwell in blissful ignorance (as tempting as it might have been), the blonde well aware of her friend’s title and what that meant; the embodiment of Athena, leading Capulet troops to battle and issuing orders to them. Strange that, in spite of this, the pair still were friends, when she had sworn to do her utmost to eradicate Verona of the poison that had infected her (even if all she had managed was within the four walls of her home), often shutting down discussions with a clenched jaw and disapproving stare. 

Or because she’s a Capulet, Harriet thinks, knowing better than to voice the sentiment out loud given the nature of the other’s connection to the family. It isn’t meant as an insult, Harriet, if anything, pitied the Capulet heiress; never able to know a future beyond the one that was laid out for her, one cobblestone at a time, attempting to step out from the shadow cast by her father’s legacy. Brow furrows at the mention of a Montague by association, “When do you take stock in what a Montague says?” There is a hint of derision in her tone, rare that it shone through. No longer about Tomas, for she knew her own mind, now wondering what her friend was doing. “Nevertheless the politician, I’ve seen him at the Dark Lady.” The thought that the man should concern himself with affairs closer to home catches between her teeth, the caustic remark remaining unspoken though it sounded something remarkably like what Vivianne would have said in another circumstance.

His lips twitch imperceptibly, an almost-smile when Harriet mentions bringing his father a gift. It’s a sweet gesture made sweeter by the intent Everett knows motivates it: to bring comfort and cheer to someone feeling utterly lonely on one of the most joyful holidays of the year.

It makes him think of Easton, too.

Easton, who’ll more likely than not spend his Christmas alone. He’s heard from Halcyon that he isn’t speaking with Lucrezia anymore at Capulet headquarters, likely the smoke-signal of the final fractures of their emotional affair. Maybe Harriet will see him, on Christmas, always the preferred defense his little brother would shelter behind instead of his family. Easton would benefit from it, if she did. Everett thinks, briefly, to tell her to bring his sibling something too, but he can’t bring himself to say it.

For his little brother, perhaps. But not the usurper who nearly killed him.

He fears that everything’s been broken irreparably. Heart still carrying too much love for Easton to ever truly wish him ill, but too horrified and betrayed by his almost-actions to want him anywhere near. It’s a dour holiday prospect to consider: a mother dead, a brother good as, and the two remaining members struggling under the weight of familial horror.

And yet, Harriet’s right. Even after all of this, flawed and broken and culpable as Gabriel Craven is, Everett still has his father. He, out of anyone in his life, is the one Everett’s sacrificed the most for, selling his soul to the mafia for twelve long years in the hopes of securing the safety of his life.

Despite all odds, his father is still here. Everett smiles, bittersweet. “You’re right. That’s more than enough to be thankful for,” he agrees, staring at the meditative curls of steam rising from his bowl. His gaze catches hers, then, something soft and warm settling in his ribs. He’s said thank you so many times tonight he feels it becoming wooden on his tongue; this time, he lifts the soup as a mock-toast, hoping that the gratefulness in his voice is enough to convey it to her.

“Merry Christmas, Harriet. And to a happier New Year.”

The actor lets out a short whistle. “There aren’t many people who can keep me grounded,” He admits, lips quirking playfully. “Might be a tall order, that one. Of course,” He adds, dangling it like bait, “You’re always welcome to take a shot.” 

In fact, he’s hoping she’ll do just that.

But Tomas’ teasing is briefly - though not unpleasantly - interrupted once the cake is brought before Harriet, along with a wonderful assortment of other treats to tempt her fancy. He leans back in his chair, happy to take the second-spot in her attentions given the brilliantly gleeful grin that captures her features when she gazes at the cake anew. He’s rather proud of it, it’s true. It’s a faithful miniature, the creamiest layers of chocolate and vanilla sponge, covered with the fondant necessary to replicate the Giardino Giusti. It’s worth every penny too, just to see her smile like that.

“You have no idea how much I mean it when I say the pleasure’s mine,” He insists, shooting her an easygoing grin when Harriet looks up at him in awe. He isn’t just being humble about it, either. “It’s crazy fun to surprise you – And here I wasn’t sure I’d pull it off without you being as all-knowing as you are.” He could get used to this, Tomas thinks. Finding new ways to surprise her, watching her smile as radiantly and unselfconsciously as she’s doing now. I could do that, I could do that for us…

… He likes to think of them as an ‘us’. 

Harriet offers the word bashfully, a finger waving in the space between them. This time, the actor does his best to contain his reflex to smile, and keeps his expression solemn instead, least she think he’s joking. “Well,” Sabello begins, “I admit I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He’s too spur-of-the-moment for that; too liable to acting on impulsive - albeit deeply felt - emotion. “To be honest, half of me was afraid you’d laugh me out of the restaurant in hearing it altogether… Might serve me right, even, after some of the ways I’ve behaved in the last few months.” 

He’s grateful Harriet is too merciful for that. And he’s exaggerating somewhat; if anything made this confession a fraction easier, it was the bankable knowledge that she would let him down gently. It’s one of the many things Tomas appreciates about her. “I like you. More than I think you realize… Maybe more than I should,” He admits, reaching for her hand again across the table. It feels warm under his palm, grounding him. “I like spending time together, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of being more than friends… Though it isn’t only for me to decide what happens between us. I’m in, no matter what… Even if it is just a friendship.” He assures her, feeling more nervous than he thought he would, while practicing in front of the mirror. 

Tomas gives her hand a squeeze. “I only have one condition— That you let me be there for you the same way you’ve been there for me, these last few months. I don’t want it to just be about me, me, me anymore… My problems, my life. I want to be there for you too. I wanna be in. Both of us, in.”

--

“Is that right?” the question, though rhetorical, forms around the amused stretch to her mouth. “I suppose if someone has to try...” she teases, grin belying any semblance of seriousness that could be drawn from her rebuke.

“I had my fair share of,” tongue runs across the front of her teeth, whether it sought the taste of lingering chocolate sauce or the right descriptor remained unclear, “dalliances before.” Mouth pulls up into a smile after a beat, a teasing lilt entering her tone, “none of mine were deemed worthy enough for front page news though.” He knows - or so she hopes - that there is no judgement accompanying the sentiment, rather a light-hearted jibe from someone who understood what was happening behind the scenes. 

It would be a lie to say it wasn’t the statement that prompted the soft pink hue that blossomed across her cheeks, making her feel as though she were the starring role in some kind of romance film. “I like you too.” soft-spoken, her own admission is underpinned with truth, coming a handful of beats after his own, before the warmth of his hand in her own proves a distraction. Harriet mulls the thought over, chewing on her lower lip until she makes a decision, “I’m in too,” squeezing his hand gently in affirmation. 

The condition softens her expression further, unable to help feel flattered by the thought in itself. “I’ll try,” the woman promises, strange that something that people would expect to come naturally to her was something she knew would prove difficult. “It’s not something that... comes easily to me.” Even with Vivianne, with Everett, with Easton, who had seen her at her highest and lowest moments, there were certain things that she couldn’t push passed her lips.

Harriet picks up her glass with the hand that doesn’t rest in his, holding it outward in askance of a toast, “To... something more than friendship,” she proposes, ignoring the hesitation that reverberated in her chest, easier now to fall into a more humorous tone, mouth quirking playfully, “And being all in.”

Every year, she intones sweetly. Year after year after year… Everett reaches back into sleepy, dust-covered memories, back when the name D’Angelo meant little more to him than the dozens of other creamy envelopes that left Villa Santarossa at the beginning of each November. He’d known little of Harriet then, except that she was a son and not a daughter, and that somewhere in his teenage years there were quite a few tittering socialites speaking about a surgery.

It wasn’t until a few years before they’d both enrolled at Università di Verona that a face with a name became a friendly acquaintance, and then, once they were both at university, became the close confidant of his girlfriend. It’s been nearly two decades since then. Harriet hasn’t changed much at all. Still with eyes like honey and petal-soft skin, and a voice like a clear, rushing brook. It’s always baffled Everett, how soft she could remain despite losing her only son. Maybe, he thinks, it’s her strength.

“Yes, it’s all the typical fuss,” Everett confirms wryly. And yet this time, it’s for show. In truth, he’s dreading the Christmas Gala. Once upon a time, he’d thought that the holidays held a certain whimsical magic, hiding somewhere in the spaces under stockings or between pine needles. He knows, now, it was because of his family. Because Mamma would feel more inclined to smile at Easton in December, because he could feel the world falling in love. Now, it feels empty. No mother, no brother. Just his father and himself, a dying man and a dead man walking, sitting amidst the empty hallways that used to be a home.

He knows, once he sees his father, he might think differently. That when Catia kisses him on the cheek he’ll smile, or when his relatives draw him into warm conversation he’ll forget momentarily about his losses. But still. It isn’t quite the same.

He can see them, now. His father’s sad, green eyes, quiet with regret. “He’s been better,” Everett admits. He can’t remember a time his father was worse, save for when his mother died. “I think he’s heartbroken.” There’s a part of him that’s angry at him for it, for mourning the downfall of a son he never cherished in the first place, but he won’t say it. Not to Harriet. “That kind of news isn’t easy for any parent to bear.”

--

The invitation to the annual Christmas Gala had been one that she accepted without hesitation, in spite of the variety of people that attended; some accepting, others less so. Harriet could recognise, however, that Verona would always house people from all walks of life, whispering to herself that life would be dull if everyone were the same, like a hushed prayer that managed to make her feel better. It made her sad that Everett didn’t seem to share the usual excitement though she could hardly blame him. 

“I’d be surprised if he was unaffected,” the response is soft, an almost lament, part of her able to recognise the unintentional connection in still being attuned to the events that happened around them. There were times that their home town had become a battlefield, wave after wave of unfortunate news that sapped the feeling from your limbs like cold water, it was times like those that emoting was a strength. “I’ll be sure to bring him something.” What exactly she would bring remains a mystery, even to herself, but she had a few days to figure it out. 

“You have each other,” she adds after a beat, not necessarily meant to comfort but a reminder that not all was lost, knowing that all of the Craven men had suffered from Easton’s actions - some less directly than others. “That’s what’s important.” Her smile holds a hint of sadness, knowing that mindset wasn’t shared among all families. “And you have me,” it’s a friendly offer, void of ulterior motive, “For anything either of you need,” as much as she could give him at the moment.

lavolumnia·:

“I suspect it’d be hard for them to find your bad side,” Vivianne allows, taking another glance at the photograph. Harriet did indeed look beautiful; bringing the sun in an otherwise dreary winter picture; but then Harriet nearly always looked beautiful. But it certainly wasn’t going to get her out of the frying pan that was this conversation. 

‘We’re… Friends.’ The explanation falls from Harriet’s mouth with a marked lack of conviction, at least as it’s filtered through the receiving lens of Vivianne’s own cynicism. The Underboss takes another drag of her cigarette, brows shooting up to convey her disbelief. “Mi dispiace, cara,” She replies drolly, waving away the smoke. With her free index she taps the newspaper. “… I was trying to remember the last time I had a tête-à-tête that looked like this with someone whom I wasn’t fucking.”

Which is and isn’t true. Vivianne had weaponized every concept of personal space when it came to flirting with targets or warming various politicians to her cause. There have been enough suggestive photographs, even for people who’d never made it past the threshold of any bedroom with her. But it isn’t Harriet’s MO, which is why the point still stands and the picture still indicts her. Of what, exactly, Vivianne can’t be sure. But she has hunch it sure as hell isn’t just ‘friendship’.

“—I know him. Though you won’t be happy to hear that I don’t like what I do know.”

--

Harriet had long since learned not to be shocked by her friend’s bluntness, surprise seemed futile when, more often than not, she would have expected nothing less. In truth, the D’Angelo would have been concerned had the other suddenly favoured subtlety in comparison to her usual approach. The Vin Brulé that had been ordered for them both is placed on the table, an opportune moment to digest the pointed admission alongside the taste at the back of her throat. “I like him,” she offers after a minute, shoving down the instinct to shift the topic off herself with a returning comment and choosing honesty. Not quite a direct answer, but then again that was Vivianne’s approach.

“You would,” Everett remarks, lip curling fondly. It’s all very Harriet — a trip to Denmark to see the statue of a beloved Hans Christen Andersen fairytale. La Sirenetta, a mermaid with the sweetest voice who’d risk it all for love. He wonders whether it’s sentiment that makes her love it, whether it’s her own preference or a childhood memory that’s drawn her to that fable in particular. But it’s a passing question, one that doesn’t linger long after he takes a few more sips of soup.

It’s hot and buttery, and just thick enough to settle in his stomach with pleasant warmth, cream and garlic and tomato and squash in a smooth, steaming bisque. “Che saporito, Harriet.” Everett takes another spoonful, savoring it on the tongue. “My congratulations to the chef. If you’re not too keen on keeping your kitchen secrets, you’ll have to give me the recipe for this, sometime.” A smile, warm. He knows a poor guest is one who moans about their woes for the duration of a visit, and Everett Craven isn’t one to skimp on propriety. “Will we be seeing you at the gala next week?”

It’s an easy topic, easier to discuss than the debacle of an entire company shift. It’s a lot to process, Harriet murmurs, and she doesn’t even know the half of it. Not for the first time, Everett wonders whether she’d think less of him if she truly knew all of it. He knows she was close to Easton, and suspects, at least, that she was fully aware of the truth of how he’d made the majority of his money. But whatever enmity lay between himself and his younger brother, the secrets of who was and wasn’t in the Capulets was an oath always kept with the utmost secrecy, and he knows that when it came to that, at least, Easton had kept his word. Not for himself, of course. But because Cosimo or Vivianne would tan his hide if he didn’t.

“It could.” In her own well-meaning way, Harriet begins to inadvertently expose her inexperience in the realm of high-management business, but it’s the sentiment that Everett latches on to. “They’ll sort it out,” he agrees graciously, not wanting to embarrass or bore her with the finer details of what goes on in a major company shift. 

“Perhaps selfishly, I’m more concerned at the moment with what that entails for me than what it does for the company.” For a moment, a confession teeters on his tongue, but in the end it’s completely hidden underneath the veneer of light conversation that Everett creates so effortlessly. “I’m just glad the decision is still relatively far out,” he admits with a half-smile. “Gives me more time to spend with my family.” A beat. His smile freezes. “My father, I mean.”

--

Harriet softens when the honest compliment leaves him, the same way that people often do when feeling the heat of the sun for the first time after a harsh winter. “I’ll give you the recipe before you leave, remind me.” There is a moment that she considers dismissing his use of the word secrets before reminding herself that it would be disingenuous, keeping company with those who traded secrets like currency didn’t make her exempt from their impact even if she had tried to distance herself as much as possible when it edged on something more severe. 

“I bought my dress last week,” she confesses, the implication behind the admittance was evident. The tradition had offered solace in the time when she had needed it most, not about to abandon it now given everything that had happened and the joy it still bestowed upon her. “You know I look forward to it every year,” and every year she would make sure to have something set aside for their hosts (after all, manners were important). “I’m sure you’ve been preparing for weeks now?” Tone verges on teasing, knowing how much the gala was discussed in their social circles.