Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Engagement
Writer's POV
The Morales family dinner was loud, chaotic, and perfect.
Sofia was showing Evan pictures from her phone, talking a mile a minute about her college classes. Carlos clapped Evan on the shoulder, asking about work at Harlow Industries. The table was covered with her mother's cooking arroz con pollo, tostones, ensalada.
Evan sat in the middle of it all, smiling, laughing, fitting in like he'd always belonged there.
"So when's the wedding?" Sofia asked, bouncing in her seat. "Can I help plan? Please say I can help plan."
"Of course you can help," Fabiola said, squeezing her sister's hand.
"And I'm a bridesmaid, right? You promised when we were kids...."
"Yes, you're a bridesmaid."
Sofia squealed and hugged her.
Carlos raised his beer. "To Evan and Fabiola. May you have many years of happiness together."
"And many grandbabies for me," Rosa added, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
Everyone clinked glasses. Evan's hand found Fabiola's under the table, squeezed gently.
After dinner, while Evan helped Carlos with the dishes something that made her father beam with approval Rosa pulled Fabiola aside into the kitchen.
"Mija, we need to talk."
Fabiola's stomach tightened. "Mama..."
"I know you love him. I know he makes you happy now. But.." Rosa's hands gripped Fabiola's arms. "I still see it. That darkness around him."
"Mama, not this again..."
"Listen to me." Rosa's voice was urgent. "It's different now. Quieter. But it's still there. Like a shadow that won't leave. And I'm afraid..." Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm afraid of what will happen when you tie yourself to him permanently."
"Evan is better now. He got help. He's happy and healthy and.."
"On the surface, yes. But underneath..." Rosa shook her head. "A tree can look healthy on the outside while its roots rot from the inside. I just want you to be careful."
"I've been with Evan for years, Mama. If something was wrong, I'd know."
"Would you?" Rosa's gaze was piercing. "Or are you so in love you can't see it?"
Fabiola pulled away, frustrated. "Why can't you just be happy for me?"
"I am happy for you. But I'm also your mother. And mothers see things daughters refuse to." Rosa cupped Fabiola's face. "I'm not saying don't marry him. I'm saying keep your eyes open. Stay aware. Don't lose yourself completely in him."
"I won't."
"Promise me."
"I promise, Mama."
But Rosa's expression said she didn't quite believe her.
That night, lying in bed in Evan's apartment, Fabiola stared at the ceiling.
"What's wrong?" Evan asked, turning to face her.
"My mother still doesn't trust you."
"I know." His voice was calm. "She's never trusted me. Not since we were kids."
"It bothers me."
"Why? Everyone else loves me." He said it without arrogance, just fact. "Your dad treats me like a son. Sofia thinks I'm the best thing ever. Even Amy's come around."
"I know, but..."
"But you want your mother's approval."
"She's my mother, Evan."
He pulled her close, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Give her time. Once we're married, once she sees how happy we are, she'll come around."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He tilted her face up to look at him. "Besides, all that matters is that you want to marry me. Do you?"
"Yes. More than anything."
"Then that's all we need." He kissed her softly. "Your mother's fears are just that fears. They're not reality."
Fabiola wanted to believe him.
Wanted to dismiss her mother's warnings as superstition, as overprotectiveness, as the worries of a woman who'd never fully understood Evan.
But a small part of her the part that remembered all the years of Evan's darkness, his obsession, his desperate need whispered that maybe her mother saw something she didn't.
The wedding planning consumed the next few months.
Fabiola threw herself into every detail. Venue selection they chose a garden estate outside the city, beautiful and romantic. Dress shopping she found the perfect gown, fitted lace with a flowing skirt. Flowers, music, menu tastings.
And through it all, Evan was there.
Not just participating, but watching.
He sat beside her at every venue tour, his hand on her back, his eyes on her face.
He came to every tasting, every meeting with the florist, every decision.
And he watched.
The way she smiled when she found the perfect centerpiece.
The way her eyes lit up when she tasted the champagne they'd serve.
The way she moved through the world, bringing light and warmth wherever she went.
"You're staring again," Fabiola said one afternoon while addressing invitations.
"I like looking at you." Evan's voice was soft. "You're beautiful when you're happy. Radiant."
"I'm always happy with you."
"Good." He stood, moved behind her chair, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "That's all I want. To make you happy. To give you everything you deserve."
He pressed his face into her hair and breathed deep that familiar gesture she'd grown to love.
"You smell like wedding flowers today," he murmured. "Peonies and happiness."
Fabiola laughed, leaning back against him. "You and your nose."
"I can't help it. You always smell amazing." His arms tightened. "I'm the luckiest man alive, you know that?"
"I'm pretty lucky too."
"No." His voice was serious. "You're an angel who decided to love a broken boy. That's not luck. That's grace."
Fabiola turned in his arms, kissed him deeply.
And missed the way his eyes flickered for just a moment.
The way something passed across his expression there and gone so fast it might have been imagination.
The way his smile, when she pulled back, was just a fraction too still.
But she was too happy to notice.
Too in love to see.
Too focused on the future to pay attention to the shadows gathering in the corners.
Because Evan was right.
All that mattered was their love.
Their happiness.
Their future together.
Everything else was just fear.
Just superstition.
Just her mother seeing darkness where there was none.
Right?
Right?
But late at night, when Evan thought she was asleep, Fabiola sometimes felt his eyes on her.
Watching.
Always watching.
And in those moments, her mother's words echoed:
He carries something dark.
But Fabiola pushed the thought away.
Buried it deep.
And focused on the wedding.
On the dress.
On the flowers.
On the future.
On anything except the possibility that her mother might be right.
That the darkness had never really left.
It had just learned to hide.