Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 54: She Takes After Me
While Andrés tried to make sense of the strange, fluttering certainty in his chest—this thing he dared call love—the atmosphere inside L’Ambroisie pressed down like a velvet weight. It was a restaurant that made menus unnecessary; power arrived already known, unspoken, unquestioned. Soft amber light pooled across polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers glittered like frozen tears, and the air carried the restrained perfume of truffle butter, seared meat, and money—heady, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
But for Eleanor Starling, the environment felt less like a five-star restaurant and more like a high-stakes interrogation room. She sat perfectly upright in her chair, shoulders squared, spine straight—every inch the woman who had learned long ago how to endure while smiling.
Seated across from her was Juliet Davis, a woman whose smile was as sharp as the diamonds dripping from her neck. Juliet was equally composed and elegant, though her confidence came from dominance rather than survival. The difference was subtle, but Eleanor had lived long enough to recognize it.
They were there to discuss the merger of their bloodlines—or rather, the sacrifice of one to save the other. Their husbands had wisely stayed away, leaving the women to handle decorations, guest lists, catering, and the thousand tiny details that would make the event look like love instead of a transaction.
Eleanor adjusted the silk scarf at her throat, her fingers trembling slightly. She wouldn’t be here at all if the Davis family didn’t hold a leash around the Starling throat—a tight, invisible, and unbreakable cord woven from secrets that could turn the Starling estate into a pile of ash overnight.
She of course know the full nature of the leverage; Daniel had told her. When he had simply come home one night, pale as death, and said, "We’re doing this."
The Starling family held one of the oldest names in Los Angeles, but because of that "leash," they were not only providing the groom; they were footing the bill for every extravagant petal and crystal flute of the upcoming engagement party.
Eleanor folded her napkin onto her lap with careful precision, resisting the urge to clench her fingers beneath the table.
She still didn’t know why the Davises had set their sights on her family all those years ago, only that once they had, escape became impossible. What she did know—the thought that kept her awake at night—was that she would not allow her firstborn son, Steve, to become collateral damage in a game he hadn’t chosen.
Steve was her pride, her joy, and her greatest weakness. When the Davises had first come knocking with their demands, they had looked at him as the potential bridge. Eleanor had felt the cold hand of terror squeeze her heart. She couldn’t let her "golden boy" be used as a pawn by people as predatory as the Davises.
So, when the opportunity presented itself—when Luciano came begging them to save the person most important to him—Eleanor had made a decision that changed everything. She did what any "loving" mother would do: she offered up the bastard.
It wasn’t cruelty, Eleanor told herself. It was survival. And survival always demanded blood.
Luciano was the reminder of her husband’s betrayal, the child born of a woman who meant nothing to the Starling legacy. To Eleanor, he was a utility—a sacrificial lamb. What was the point of a husband’s infidelity if the product of it couldn’t be used to protect the "real" family?
But Luciano had grown. He hadn’t just survived; he had become a monster with a crown, building an empire that cast a shadow over the very people who had cast him out.
And with the days approaching—the dinner where Luciano had promised to bring his fiancée—Eleanor’s unease had grown into something sharp and cold.
If Luciano backed out of the arrangement with Marcia, the Davises wouldn’t just be angry; they would be vengeful. The Starlings would be doomed.
Juliet Davis looked up, her fork poised mid-air. She noticed Eleanor’s distraction and offered a patronizing tilt of her head. "You’re quiet today, Eleanor. How is the family? I assume everyone is busy with the preparations?"
Eleanor lifted her gaze and forced a smile that felt as fragile as porcelain. "They’re doing wonderfully, Juliet. Business is stable. Health is good. Nothing we can complain about. And also busy, as you can imagine. We want everything to be perfect."
She paused, trying to sound casual. "That reminds me... when exactly is Marcia returning from Barcelona? I assume she’ll want to oversee the final floral choices."
The question slid onto the table with deceptive softness.
This was the real reason Eleanor had agreed to lunch. She needed to confirm that Luciano’s "fiancée" was, in fact, Marcia. Mary—the spy they had planted in Luciano’s estate—had gone silent. There had been no updates, no reports on who Luciano was spending his time with.
Eleanor worried that Luciano had caught on, but she dismissed the thought. If he had found a spy in his home, the Starling estate would already be a smoking ruin. Luciano didn’t play games; he ended them, the faint scar on Eleanor’s ear from her insult to his mothers was a testament to that.
Juliet took a slow, deliberate bite of her steak, savoring the flavor before answering. "She returns this Friday. Marcia said she has some specific plans for her entrance. Honestly, with the engagement approaching, the poor girl has a mountain of things to do. Dress fittings, spa appointments, the guest list... her early return is quite necessary."
Eleanor felt a wave of relief wash over her, so potent it almost made her lightheaded. Friday. If Marcia was returning Friday, and Luciano was bringing his "fiancée" to the mansion next weekend, it all lined up. He had finally yielded.
"That is wonderful news," Eleanor said, her voice regaining its usual aristocratic steel. "Actually, I have some great news of my own. It seems Luciano and Marcia are getting along much better than we anticipated. He announced he’s bringing his fiancée to the Starling estate for dinner next weekend."
Surprise flickered across Juliet’s face—genuine and unguarded—before she masked it with a delighted laugh. "Already? I told Marcia to take her time, to let him fall in love after the ring was on her finger. But my girl moves fast."
Juliet leaned back, her narcissistic pride swelling. "But of course, my soon-to-be son-in-law is a man of taste. Luciano is powerful, handsome, and obscenely rich—and let’s not forget he built every cent of it without leaning on that father of his. A man like that needs a woman like my Marcia. She’s beautiful, she’s refined... winning Luciano’s heart was always going to be a piece of cake. After all, she takes after me."
The jab landed exactly where intended. Eleanor felt heat crawl up her throat. Juliet never missed an opportunity to remind her that Steve—legitimate, polished, and privileged—had accomplished nothing close to Luciano’s empire. The bastard had outshone the heir without trying.
"Quite," Eleanor managed to say through clenched teeth.
Juliet didn’t stop there. She was enjoying her position as the puppet master far too much. "But that’s not why we’re here, is it? The engagement party has to be unforgettable. We want the most expensive of everything—flowers flown in from Ecuador, caviar from the Caspian, a string quartet that’s played for European royalty. Invite every name that matters in LA." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper with a jagged edge. "The Starlings wouldn’t want us to look... stingy, would they?"
Eleanor’s smile tightened until it hurt. Inside she was seething—furious at the casual entitlement, at the way Juliet treated Starling money like her personal ATM. She wanted to throw her wine in Juliet’s face. She wanted to scream that the Starlings were a dynasty and the Davises were nothing but blackmailing parasites. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
"Of course, Juliet," Eleanor said, her voice like velvet-wrapped ice. "We will prepare everything to the Davises’ exact specifications. You have our word. The Starling name is on the line, after all."
Juliet picked up her wine glass, her eyes glittering with triumph. "I know you will, Eleanor. I have full confidence in your... motivation."
Eleanor took a slow sip of her Sauternes, letting the sweetness coat her tongue. "Just make sure Marcia is well taken care of before she arrives at the estate. Luciano can be... particular about his guests."
The words carried weight beneath their politeness.
"Oh, darling. Don’t you worry about my daughter." Juliet’s laugh was light, almost musical. "Marcia knows exactly how to handle a man like Luciano. By the time that dinner is over, he’ll be begging to move the wedding date up."
Eleanor inclined her head. The waiter appeared then, silent as smoke, refilling their glasses. Eleanor used the moment to steady herself. She pictured the weekend ahead: the long dining table in the Starling great room, candlelight flickering off antique silver, Luciano at one end with Marcia on his arm. The perfect couple. The perfect alliance. The noose loosened, just enough.
They engaged in poisonous small talk—seating arrangements, color schemes, the repertoire. Inside, however, Eleanor’s unease stirred again. Call it a woman’s instinct or something darker, but the closer the weekend drew, the heavier the air felt in her lungs.
Luciano had never been predictable. He’d grown up on the edges of their world—sharp, watchful, and always calculating. Eleanor had never liked the way his eyes followed people, as though he were memorizing their weaknesses.
She glanced at Juliet, who was now scrolling through photos of floral arrangements on her phone, humming softly. Juliet believed everything was proceeding according to plan. Eleanor almost envied her certainty.
Almost.
Because Eleanor knew better: Luciano didn’t do anything halfway. If he was bringing a fiancée home, it wasn’t because he’d suddenly fallen for Marcia’s charms. It was because he’d chosen her for a plan they couldn’t yet fathom.
Eleanor set her glass down with a faint clink. "I should get back to the office. There are calls to make."
Juliet looked up, her smile widening. "Of course. Tell your husband we’re looking forward to seeing him at the party. And Eleanor?" She paused, letting the moment stretch. "Thank you for handling the bill this afternoon. It’s so generous of the Starlings."
Eleanor stood, smoothing her dress. "It’s our pleasure."
Juliet walked toward her and touched Eleanor’s arm—light, almost affectionate. "We’re going to make this unforgettable," she said.
Eleanor nodded.
Unforgettable.
Yes.
She just hoped the word didn’t end up meaning something else entirely.
She walked out of the restaurant without looking back, her heels clicking against marble like a countdown. Outside, the Los Angeles afternoon sun was too bright and harsh. Eleanor slid into the back of the waiting town car and closed her eyes, pressing two fingers to her temple to ward off a headache.
Luciano had always been good at silence. Too good. And somewhere in that silence, Eleanor felt the first real crack appear in the fragile bargain they’d made.
The driver’s voice came through the partition, polite and neutral. "Home, Mrs. Starling?"
She hesitated. Then, quietly: "Yes to the estate. I need to speak with my husband."
