Dior Luca
February 12th, 2015
The afternoon sun filters through the tall windows of my bedroom, painting golden stripes across the familiar stone walls of the Luca Estate. I’ve spent twenty-three years in this room, watched the light change through these same windows, learned how to be me in these four walls. Now I stand at the threshold of the mirror, carefully choosing which version of myself I’ll present to the world tonight. Or more specifically, to him. My fingers trace along the edge of my vanity, the cool marble a reminder of the weight of tradition that seems to live in the very air of this place. The lights will be dimmed tonight, the music will flow, and we’ll all slip into the roles that have been assigned to us since birth at least on the surface. But underneath, I have other plans. I step into the center of my room, dropping the towel I’ve been wrapped in since my shower. My skin is still slightly damp, cool air raising goosebumps along my arms. The bikini I’d laid out earlier glints at me from the bed, minimalist, barely there, and absolutely perfect for tonight. I pull the bottom up my legs, fastening it low on my hips, and slide the top over my shoulders, adjusting until it sits exactly right. Not too much, just enough to make people look twice. My parents would hate it. Which is exactly why I chose it.
I take my time drying my hair, adding just a touch of product to tame the waves, then apply the barest hint of makeup, enough to enhance what’s already there, not enough to make it obvious. It’s a delicate balance, looking like you’re not trying while leaving absolutely nothing to chance. I’ve mastered it. When I finally step into the white linen pants and matching oversized shirt I’ve chosen to throw over the bikini, I pause, examining the final result. The outfit is deceptively simple, elegant even until I move, and then the hints of skin beneath the thin fabric do their work. It’s the kind of outfit that doesn’t shout for attention; it simply commands it.
The first car arrives just as I’m finishing my hair. I hear it before I see it, the crunch of tires on gravel announcing that the day is finally shifting into what it was always meant to be. I can hear my mother’s voice downstairs, her tone deliberately light as she directs staff, prepares for the onslaught of arrivals. My father will be somewhere with my brother Fabio, discussing business that needs to be handled before the evening gets truly underway. It’s our family ritual, one we’ve performed a hundred times before. When I step into the hallway, I almost crash into my mother, who stops mid-step, her eyes traveling from my face down to my outfit and back again. “Dior,” she says, her voice carefully measured. “That’s an interesting choice.” I smile, knowing exactly what she’s seeing. “You like it?” “I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate for tonight,” she says, her words casual but her eyes sharp. “Perhaps you should reconsider?” My father appears behind her, his expression shifting from curiosity to something more guarded when he sees me. “Dior,” he says, my name a statement rather than a question. His jaw tightens just slightly, a reaction almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t grow up learning to track his every micro-expression. It’s his equivalent of shouting. I brush past them both, planting a kiss on my mother’s cheek as I go. “It’s perfect, actually. Very comfortable for the pool.” “It’s not a pool party,” my father says, his voice low. “At least, it wasn’t until now.” I turn, walking backwards down the hall, my smile deliberate. “Isn’t that the best part about traditions? How they evolve?” I leave them behind, feeling the weight of their gazes on my back as I descend the grand staircase. Fabio is already waiting at the bottom, a glass of wine in his hand, his expression knowing. “Subtle,” he says, his eyes flicking to my barely covered midsection where my shirt has fallen open. “Very, very subtle.” “What are you talking about?” I ask, accepting the wine he offers with a smile. “I’m just getting comfortable for the evening.” He snorts, the sound entirely unrefined and completely genuine, a moment of real brotherly affection amid all the pageantry. “Right. And I’m sure Adriano won’t notice at all.” My heart stumbles, just slightly. “I have no idea what Adriano has to do with my outfit choices.” “No,” Fabio agrees, his smile widening. “Of course you don’t.”
He leaves me there, walking back toward the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. I watch him go, fighting the urge to check my reflection one more time. The house is buzzing now, staff moving through with trays and glasses, the quiet hum of last-minute preparations. Through the windows, I can see cars lining the driveway, families spilling out onto the gravel. The Bianchi’s, first to arrive as always. The Venturi’s, with Chiara giving me a small wave when she spots me at the window. The Ferraros haven’t made it yet, which means Calisto is probably still doing whatever last-minute thing he decided needed doing. I watch them all, a familiar warmth spreading through my chest. This is what I know, these people, this place, this moment. And then I see it, the long black car that belongs to the Caruso’s, winding its way up the drive. My breath catches, just for a second, before I can control it. Isabella and Alessandro first, elegant and composed as always. Teo steps out next, followed by Rocco. And then.. I turn away from the window, forcing my expression back to neutral. It doesn’t matter if my heart is suddenly beating too fast or if my palms have gone slightly damp. I take a long sip of my wine, straighten my shoulders, and step away from the window.
The day is just beginning. And I look exactly like I should, untouchable, confident, in control. I always do.
