Page 50 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
23
Isabella
SteppingintoLaTerrazza,an upscale Italian restaurant bathed in soft golden light and the hum of subdued conversations, I feel a familiar knot of tension in my stomach. It's the kind of place my parents, Richard and Evelyn Carrington, choose for dinners—elegant, prestigious, and a little stiff. Just like them.
Richard, a distinguished neurosurgeon with silver hair that hints at his years of experience, sits with perfect posture, scanning a wine list with an analytical eye. Beside him, Evelyn, a corporate lawyer whose sharp features mirror her mind, surveys the room with an air of authority. Both exude a sense of controlled elegance.
I approach the table, smoothing down my dress, a subconscious attempt to present myself as the put-together daughter they expect. "Mom, Dad," I greet, leaning in for a brief, formal hug.
"Isabella, dear," Mom says, her smile more polite than warm. "You look well."
Dad sets down the wine list, his gaze piercing. "Good to see you, kiddo. We were surprised to hear about your engagement from the press. You usually keep us in the loop with such significant life events."
The reproach in his tone stings, even if I had anticipated it. "It was a bit sudden," I admit, trying to keep my voice even. "Dom and I wanted to share the news personally, but things got ahead of us."
"Dom?" Dad raises an eyebrow. "This is the owner of the Silver Blades, correct?"
I nod, suddenly very aware of Dom's absence. He's on his way, caught in traffic, but part of me wishes he were here already, a buffer against their scrutinizing eyes.
Mom tilts her head, assessing. "We've read about him. A former player, wasn't he? Quite the shift from the ice to the boardroom. We're curious to meet him."
Her tone is laced with skepticism, a reminder of the high standards they've always held for anyone entering our lives. I fight the urge to defend Dom, to explain how he's more than just a former athlete, how he's made a name for himself beyond hockey.
As the waiter approaches, poised to take our order, my mother assumes command of the table with an air that brooks no argument. "We'll start with the bruschetta and the carpaccio," she states, her voice firm, each word enunciated with precision. "For the main course, the sea bass for me. Grilled, not pan-seared. And make sure it's deboned. My husband will have the filet mignon, medium-rare. Isabella?"
“Uh, the filet. Same as Dad.”
The thought that this dinner is more than a casual family catch-up; it's an evaluation, a test of my life choices irks me, but it's not unexpected. Growing up with Richard and Evelyn Carrington meant constantly proving your worth, your decisions, your path in life. And now, with Dom about to walk into this, I can't help but feel a mix of apprehension and a defiant desire to show them that I've made the right choice, for me.
The sound of the door opening catches my attention, and I see Dom, his presence commanding yet easy, as he scans the room. Our eyes meet, and he offers a reassuring smile, unaware of the gauntlet he's about to walk into. As he approaches, I brace myself, ready to introduce Dom Steele, my fiancé, to the two most challenging critics I've ever known.
Dom arrives with his characteristic confidence, striding into the restaurant with an ease that belies the tension at the table. He greets my parents with a polite firmness, extending a hand to my father and offering a warm smile to my mother. Their reception is cool, guarded, a mix of apprehensiveness and curiosity in their eyes.
"Mr. and Mrs. Carrington, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," Dom says as he takes his seat, his voice smooth and assured.
My father, a man not easily impressed, scrutinizes Dom with a calculating gaze. "Mr. Steele, we've heard a lot about you. Owner of several hockey teams, including the Silver Blades," he remarks, his tone threading the line between acknowledgment and challenge.
"That's correct," Dom replies, unphased by the undercurrent of my father's words. "It's been a rewarding journey. Building teams, nurturing talent. It's not just business; it's about creating a legacy in the sport."
My mother, sharp as ever, interjects, "A legacy that apparently now includes our daughter. We were quite surprised to hear about your... marriage."
Her emphasis on 'marriage' is loaded, a clear indicator of their displeasure at being left out of the loop. I tense, but Dom remains composed, his response measured yet sincere.
"I understand your surprise," he acknowledges, locking eyes with each of them in turn. "And I apologize for not informing you sooner. Our relationship evolved in unexpected ways, and before we knew it, we were caught up in something truly special."
He reaches across the table, taking my hand in his, a show of solidarity that sends a small, reassuring current through me.
"We both value family," Dom continues. "And I assure you, the respect and admiration I have for Isabella extend to you as well. We didn't intend any disrespect."
There's a moment of silence, my parents weighing his words. Dom's poise under their scrutiny, his ability to handle their interrogations with such aplomb, impresses even me. I can see a flicker of reconsideration in my parents' eyes—perhaps the first crack in their initial apprehension.
The dinner progresses with a cautious warmth, but there’s an underlying tension that refuses to dissipate. My parents, though somewhat softened by Dom’s charm and intelligence, are still clearly uncomfortable with the path I’ve chosen.
“So, Isabella,” my father begins, his tone more pointed now, “we’ve always hoped you’d pursue a career that’s... well, more substantial. Something befitting your potential.”
Dom’s eyebrows arch slightly, but he remains composed. “May I ask why it matters? Isabella’s career in sports management is both substantial and impressive.”
My mother purses her lips, her disapproval palpable. “Sports are... frivolous. We had higher aspirations for you, Isabella. A doctor, a lawyer, an engineer—careers that truly make a difference.”
