Chapter 9
Ethan took me to a tiny Italian restaurant in the old part of the city—no reservations, no paparazzi, no VIP section. Just checkered tablecloths, homemade pasta, and a bottle of wine the owner's grandmother had made.
"I was expecting somewhere flashier," I admitted.
"Why?" He poured the wine. "I already know you're impressed by money. I'd rather know if you're impressed by good carbonara."
I was.
For the first time in years, I had a conversation that wasn't about stock prices, board meetings, or managing someone else's ego.
Ethan asked me questions—real ones. About what books I read. About what I wanted to build. About who I was underneath the last name and the emeralds.
"You spent three years hiding," he said quietly over dessert. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to be loved for myself. Not my name."
"And were you?"
The question hit a bruise I thought had healed.
"No," I admitted.
He nodded slowly. "His loss was absolute and permanent. I hope you know that."
I looked at him across the candlelight—this man who'd built everything with his own hands, who didn't need my family's money or my name or my connections.
Who just wanted to share pasta and real conversation.
"I'm starting to," I said.
He walked me to my car afterward and didn't try to kiss me. He just held my hand for a moment—warm, steady, sure.
"Friday again?" he asked.
"Friday again."
I drove home feeling something I hadn't felt in years: hope.
But hope, I'd learned, always came with a price.
Because the next morning, Diane burst into my office looking like she'd seen a ghost.
"Ms. Ashford—Alexander is outside. He's in the lobby. Security is holding him, but he's—"
"He's what?"
"He's on his knees. In front of everyone. Crying. Begging to see you."
I closed my eyes.
"And he's not alone," Diane continued, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Catherine's with him. And they brought a priest."
"A priest?"
"They're saying—they're telling everyone in the lobby that you're still spiritually bound. That the divorce wasn't legitimate. That you owe them—"
"Enough."
I stood up.
"Let them in."
"I was expecting somewhere flashier," I admitted.
"Why?" He poured the wine. "I already know you're impressed by money. I'd rather know if you're impressed by good carbonara."
I was.
For the first time in years, I had a conversation that wasn't about stock prices, board meetings, or managing someone else's ego.
Ethan asked me questions—real ones. About what books I read. About what I wanted to build. About who I was underneath the last name and the emeralds.
"You spent three years hiding," he said quietly over dessert. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to be loved for myself. Not my name."
"And were you?"
The question hit a bruise I thought had healed.
"No," I admitted.
He nodded slowly. "His loss was absolute and permanent. I hope you know that."
I looked at him across the candlelight—this man who'd built everything with his own hands, who didn't need my family's money or my name or my connections.
Who just wanted to share pasta and real conversation.
"I'm starting to," I said.
He walked me to my car afterward and didn't try to kiss me. He just held my hand for a moment—warm, steady, sure.
"Friday again?" he asked.
"Friday again."
I drove home feeling something I hadn't felt in years: hope.
But hope, I'd learned, always came with a price.
Because the next morning, Diane burst into my office looking like she'd seen a ghost.
"Ms. Ashford—Alexander is outside. He's in the lobby. Security is holding him, but he's—"
"He's what?"
"He's on his knees. In front of everyone. Crying. Begging to see you."
I closed my eyes.
"And he's not alone," Diane continued, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Catherine's with him. And they brought a priest."
"A priest?"
"They're saying—they're telling everyone in the lobby that you're still spiritually bound. That the divorce wasn't legitimate. That you owe them—"
"Enough."
I stood up.
"Let them in."