Saying I Do {Interracial Curvy Romance}

Dinner Served With a Side of Secrets

Matthew

The aroma of fresh basil and garlic fills the dining room, mingling with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. I twirl my fork through the creamy pasta, my mouth already watering before I take another bite. Flora's parents' dining table is overflowing: platters of food, jugs of iced tea, and an easy mix of our families chatting like we've been doing this for years.

"This is amazing," Mason says, his voice booming, as he points his fork at his fiancée, Terri. "You really outdid yourself, babe."

Terri smiles, wiping her hands on her napkin, a touch of flour still clinging to her cheek. "It was a team effort," she insists, nodding at Regina and Flora, who exchange a proud grin.

Regina leans back in her chair, a satisfied look on her face. "Don't give me too much credit," she says, eyes sparkling. "Flora and Terri were the ones making sure we didn't burn everything."

Flora nudges Regina with her elbow. "Yeah, right," Flora laughs. "You were a lifesaver with that garlic. No one wants bland pasta."

I swallow a mouthful and wipe my lips with my napkin. "Well, whatever you three did, it's fantastic," I say, meeting Flora's eyes for a second. "I don't think I've tasted anything this good in ages."

Maggie pipes up, "For real, this is restaurant-level stuff. Like, Italian-grandma-approved."

Mason gives her a mock-serious nod. "High praise coming from Maggie."

Just as I'm about to dig in for another forkful, I hear a voice cut through the pleasant noise. It's firm, controlled, but unmistakably tense.

"Matthew Connor Rapaport."

My spine stiffens. I look up from my plate, straight into my father's stern gaze. Emmett Rapaport has a way of commanding the room without needing to raise his voice. The conversation around us dulls, and the weight of his words makes the air feel suddenly heavy.

"Yes?" I respond, setting my fork down and forcing a neutral expression.

Father's eyebrows pinch together, his green eyes—a mirror of my own—piercing. "Do you care to explain why I received an important phone call today from Rapaport & Son in Santa Monica?"

I feel the muscles in my neck tighten. "What kind of call?" I ask, though I already know exactly what he's talking about.

His voice remains calm, but there's a dangerous edge to it. "The one informing me that the company is closing down. And that, apparently, I'm the one who is going to file for bankruptcy." His words drop like stones into the silence that's gripped the room.

I hear a collective intake of breath from the table, followed by a few awkward shifts of chairs. I glance at Flora, whose concerned eyes are fixed on me, and then at Mason, who straightens in his seat, clearly bracing himself.

I take a deep breath, my pulse quickening. "Father," I begin, choosing my words carefully, "I was going to tell you—"

"When?" Emmett interrupts, leaning forward slightly. "When it was too late for me to do anything about it? Or when the news was already public?" His voice remains controlled, but disappointment radiates from every syllable.

"Adam called me today and I tried to make it work," I reply, my voice low but steady. "I really did. But after Grandpa Morris passed, and with the market—"

Emmett holds up a hand to stop me. "Don't blame this on your great-grandfather or the market, Matthew," he says. "I trusted you to handle things."

The silence is suffocating, and I feel the heat of everyone's eyes on me. My father's disappointment cuts deeper than I want to admit, but I try to keep my composure.