Chapter 7
His expression changed.
“Home?”
I nodded.
“Not to the apartment.”
He waited.
“To wherever you live when you’re not pretending.”
His eyes filled.
“I have a house in Connecticut.”
I almost laughed.
“You own half of Connecticut.”
A faint smile appeared.
“I’ll show you the quiet part.”
The house was nothing like I expected.
No marble palace.
No armed guards inside.
No endless staff.
It sat on a large piece of land surrounded by trees.
Private.
Quiet.
Warm.
Adrian had apparently purchased it years ago.
“For you,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I thought you wanted Manhattan.”
“I wanted you.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
We walked inside.
There were photographs everywhere.
Not of Adrian.
Of me.
A picture from our wedding.
One from my birthday.
One of me asleep on a sofa.
One of me holding a coffee cup in the kitchen.
I stopped.
“You took these?”
“Some.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid I’d forget what happiness looked like.”
I looked at him.
“You really are terrible at love.”
He smiled sadly.
“I’ve been told.”
I laughed.
It was the first time we had laughed together in weeks.
And something inside me softened.
Not healed.
Not forgiven.
Just softened.
For the next month, we lived under the same roof.
Not as husband and wife.
Not yet.
We had separate bedrooms.
Separate schedules.
Separate lives.
But we talked.
Really talked.
Adrian told me things he had never told anyone.
About his father.
About the first time he had seen someone killed.
About the empire he inherited.
About the fear that if he ever appeared weak, everyone would destroy him.
I told him what it felt like to be invisible.
How every dinner invitation reminded me I wasn’t supposed to exist.
How painful it was to hear women call him single.
How humiliating it was to pretend I didn’t know him.
He listened.
Never defended himself.
Never interrupted.
One night, I asked him:
“Why did you marry me?”
He looked at me.
“Because I loved you.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
He thought for a moment.
“Because when I was with you, I didn’t feel like Adrian Moretti.”
“What did you feel like?”
“A man.”
I smiled sadly.
“I wish you’d let me meet that man sooner.”
He reached across the table.
I didn’t pull away.
His fingers touched mine.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
At twenty weeks, we found out we were having a girl.
Adrian stared at the ultrasound screen for almost a full minute.
“A daughter.”
The doctor smiled.
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
His eyes were shining.
“A daughter.”
I laughed.
“You already said that.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“I just like hearing it.”
The doctor printed the image.
Adrian took it carefully.
He stared at the tiny shape.
Then he whispered:
“She’s going to hate me.”
I laughed.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll embarrass her.”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll scare every boy who comes near her.”
“Absolutely.”
“She’ll probably hate me.”
“Probably.”
He smiled.
“I’ll deserve it.”
I watched him.
There was something different about him now.
Not because he had become perfect.
He hadn’t.
But because he had finally understood that love wasn’t ownership.
It was choice.
And every day, he was choosing us.
Six months after I left him, Adrian asked me one question.
Not about the baby.
Not about the divorce.
Not about the business.
He asked:
“Would you marry me again?”
I stared at him.
“We’re already married.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
He reached into his pocket.
There was no giant diamond.
No cameras.
No ballroom.
No audience.
Just a simple ring.
He knelt.
“I can’t erase the first three years.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want you to.”
“I can’t promise I’ll never make another mistake.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“But I can promise that if I make one, I won’t hide it.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“I can promise that your name will never again be a secret.”
He looked at me.
“And I can promise that if you ever decide you don’t want me, I will let you go.”
That was the promise that broke me.
Because for the first time, Adrian wasn’t asking me to stay.
He was giving me the freedom to leave.
And that was why I stayed.
I held out my hand.
He slid the ring onto my finger.
Then he stood.
I wrapped my arms around him.
He held me carefully.
“Does this mean yes?”
I laughed against his chest.
May you like
“It means I’m willing to try.”
“I’ll take it.”
