He Called It Poe-Like

...

"Madam," Marcello announced with a curtsey and a hand, helping Leah out of the car.  She refocused her attention and smiled shyly, somewhat proudly at the service of a chauffeur - a luxury college tuition wouldn't let her enjoy.  On her bed lay the San Giselle gown she pointed to in the boutique window a few days earlier.  Its cream satin lay like warm icing on a fresh bundt cake.  She slipped on the dress with ease, not bothering to shower.

As Lead stared at herself in the full-length mirror, she pictured herself as a wife of royalty, as an assimilated Italian, and an addition to Roman history.  She straightened her back and lengthened her neck, shifting her body slightly to the right.  She would have to learn Italian for conversation purposes and convert to Catholicism in order to marry in St. Peters, a tradition important to his family.  She nodded in agreement.

A sudden nausea disrupted her fantasy and narcissism.  She thought of the familiar black leather in the back seat of the black Fiat and shuddered; she was two weeks overdue.  She looked at herself again, wrapped in cream ribbon, damped with cold sweat on her upper lip.  Fate had decided itself.  She would extend the line of Borghese.