Chapter 8 - LEARNING TO LOVE AGAIN
At sixteen weeks, I had another ultrasound.
The examination room was dim, the monitor glowing beside me.
Dorian stood near the wall, looking unusually nervous.
Dr. Bennett smiled.
“Would you like to see your baby?”
I nodded.
Then the screen changed.
A small shape appeared.
A tiny head.
An arm.
A quick movement that made me gasp.
“Oh my God.”
Dorian stepped closer.
Dr. Bennett adjusted the image.
“There’s your baby.”
A heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
I began crying.
Again.
Pregnancy, I had discovered, made me cry at advertisements, grocery-store flowers, and videos of dogs finding their owners.
But this was different.
Dorian stood motionless.
His eyes shone.
“That’s our child?” he whispered.
Dr. Bennett smiled.
“Yes.”
He covered his mouth.
I reached for his hand.
He looked at me in surprise.
I threaded my fingers through his.
For the first time in months, it didn’t hurt to touch him.
It felt like a beginning.
By the time spring arrived, the penthouse had been sold.
Dorian rented a townhouse not far from my apartment.
It had a small backyard, creaky hardwood floors, and a kitchen with mismatched cabinet handles.
He loved it.
Or perhaps he loved that I liked it.
One Saturday afternoon, he invited me over for lunch.
I found him in the backyard attempting to assemble a wooden crib.
There were screws everywhere.
A screwdriver lay in the grass.
The instruction manual was upside down.
I stood in the doorway for a full minute before he noticed me.
“Don’t,” he said immediately.
I bit my lip.
“Don’t what?”
“Laugh.”
I burst out laughing.
Dorian looked offended.
“I used to oversee six hundred employees.”
“And yet a crib has defeated you.”
“The instructions are poorly written.”
“You’re holding them upside down.”
He looked.
Then sighed.
I laughed harder.
He shook his head, but he was smiling.
“Come help me.”
I stepped onto the patio.
“No.”
“Alina.”
“You’re a highly capable businessman.”
“Former businessman.”
“Highly capable former businessman.”
He looked up at me.
“Fine. I’ll hire someone.”
“No,” I said quickly.
He raised an eyebrow.
I walked toward him and sat carefully on the patio chair.
“You’re going to finish it.”
“Why?”
“Because our baby deserves to know their father once lost an argument to a piece of furniture.”
Dorian stared at me.
Then laughed.
It was loud.
Uncontrolled.
Beautiful.
I hadn’t heard him laugh like that since our honeymoon.
Something warm spread through my chest.
For a moment, I could almost see our future.
Not marble hallways.
Not armed guards.
Just a backyard.
A crib.
A man struggling with instructions.
And a child who might someday laugh at him too.
At twenty-four weeks, Dorian received a letter confirming that prosecutors would not pursue additional charges against him under the cooperation agreement he had reached, provided he continued fulfilling its conditions.
It was not an erasure of his past.
He had paid substantial penalties, surrendered ownership interests, and testified about the operations he’d helped oversee.
But it meant he could begin planning a future without an unresolved criminal case hanging over every day.
He brought the letter to my apartment.
I read it twice.
Then I handed it back.
“Are you relieved?”
“Yes.”
“Happy?”
He considered the question.
“Not exactly.”
“Why?”
“Because I keep thinking about what it cost to get here.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“I had money, power, and a wife who loved me. I nearly lost you because I was terrified of losing control.”
I rested a hand against my stomach.
“And now?”
He smiled faintly.
“Now I have a rented townhouse, a broken crib, and a woman who still won’t tell me whether she wants to stay married.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Sounds like a difficult life.”
“Terrible.”
He stepped closer.
“Alina?”
“Yes?”
“Have dinner with me.”
I blinked.
“We had dinner yesterday.”
“Not as husband and wife.”
My heart began beating faster.
“Then as what?”
He took a breath.
“As two people getting to know each other again.”
I studied his face.
The man who once commanded rooms with a glance now looked nervous over a dinner invitation.
And I realized that was exactly what I needed.
Not a powerful man making promises.
A frightened man willing to risk rejection.
“All right,” I said.
His face changed.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
A smile spread slowly across his features.
“Friday?”
“Friday.”
He exhaled.
Then I added, “And Dorian?”
“Yes?”
“Wear something other than a black suit.”
He laughed.
“I’ll try.”
Our first date was at a little Italian restaurant near the lake.
Dorian arrived wearing dark jeans and a blue sweater.
He looked uncomfortable.
I loved it.
He brought flowers.
Not roses.
Daisies.
My favorites.
We talked for three hours.
About childhood.
About mistakes.
About the futures we’d imagined before our lives became complicated.
He told me he wanted to go back to school to study business ethics and eventually help small companies avoid the kinds of financial traps his family had created.
I told him I wanted to reopen my design studio.
He asked whether I wanted him to invest.
I said no.
He accepted the answer without argument.
We ordered dessert.
I stole a bite of his cheesecake.
He pretended to be offended.
For one beautiful evening, we were ordinary.
As we walked to my car, he reached for my hand.
Then stopped.
I noticed.
“Dorian?”
He looked at me.
I held out my hand.
He took it.
And we walked together beneath the streetlights.
Our daughter was born on a rainy Thursday morning in August.
Her name was Evelyn Grace Cross.
She weighed seven pounds, two ounces.
She had dark hair, a furious little cry, and an astonishing ability to make her father forget how to speak.
Dorian cried when he held her.
Not a discreet tear.
He openly wept.
I watched from the hospital bed, exhausted and aching, as he cradled our daughter against his chest.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered.
Evelyn opened her tiny mouth and yawned.
Dorian laughed through his tears.
“I’m your dad.”
My heart tightened.
He kissed her forehead.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he told her softly. “More than I can explain right now.”
I smiled.
Evelyn made a tiny sound.
“But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be someone you can count on.”
He looked at me.
His eyes were wet.
“Both of you.”
I reached toward him.
He carefully brought Evelyn closer.
For several minutes, the three of us stayed together, listening to the rain tap softly against the hospital windows.
I had once imagined bringing our child home to the Cross penthouse.
A nursery with custom furniture.
Silk curtains.
A view of Lake Michigan.
May you like
Instead, we were bringing her to a little townhouse with unfinished shelves, a repaired crib, and a backyard where the grass grew unevenly.
I had never felt richer.
