Chapter 8
Dominic drove us to the coast — a two-hour drive he turned into a peaceful escape.
No work calls. No messages. Just the ocean stretching endlessly before us and his hand warm over mine on the center console.
He'd rented out an entire beachside restaurant. Just the two of us, sunset painting the sky in gold and rose, waves whispering against the shore.
"This is excessive," I said, looking at the private setup — string lights, fresh flowers, a chef preparing our meal in real-time.
"This is Tuesday," he corrected. "Wait until you see what I have planned for actual special occasions."
Over dinner, he asked me something no one had asked in years:
"What do you want, Aria? Not what's practical. Not what makes sense. What do YOU want?"
I paused, chopsticks frozen mid-air.
No one had ever asked me that. Not my parents, who expected excellence. Not Nathan, who expected obedience. Not even myself.
"I..." I set down my chopsticks. "I want to feel like I'm enough. Without performing. Without earning it."
Dominic reached across the table and took my hand.
"You have never once in your life not been enough." His voice was fierce. "The failure was always theirs. Never yours."
My throat tightened.
He squeezed my fingers. "What else?"
"I want to keep practicing medicine. I don't want to be just 'Mrs. Ashford' at charity galas."
"Done. You'll always be Dr. Sinclair first." He paused. "Unless you want to hyphenate?"
I smiled despite myself. "Maybe."
"What else?"
"I want..." I looked at the ocean, the vast freedom of it. "I want to stop being afraid that happiness has an expiration date."
Dominic stood up, came around the table, and knelt beside my chair.
"Aria Sinclair." He held both my hands, looking up at me with devastating sincerity. "I will spend every single day proving to you that this is permanent. That I am permanent. Until you believe it in your bones."
"You don't have to kneel—"
"I want to." His eyes were fierce. "You deserve a man on his knees. Not begging for forgiveness, but begging for the privilege of making you happy."
I pulled him up by his collar and kissed him.
It was our first real kiss — not born from anger or revenge or proving a point. Just two people finally choosing each other.
When we broke apart, Dominic's eyes were dazed, his breathing unsteady.
"Well," he managed. "That was worth five years of waiting."
I laughed against his mouth. "Only five?"
"I'd have waited fifty." He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. "I'd have waited forever."
...
We drove back that night, my hand in his, comfortable silence between us.
When we arrived home, his phone was exploding with notifications.
He glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened instantly.
"What?" I asked, reading the shift in his body language.
He turned the phone toward me.
A news article. Front page.
The headline made my blood run cold:
**"CROSS INDUSTRIES HEIR HOSPITALIZED AFTER APPARENT SUICIDE ATTEMPT"**
Below it, a photo of Nathan being wheeled into an ambulance, his wrists wrapped in white bandages soaked red.
No work calls. No messages. Just the ocean stretching endlessly before us and his hand warm over mine on the center console.
He'd rented out an entire beachside restaurant. Just the two of us, sunset painting the sky in gold and rose, waves whispering against the shore.
"This is excessive," I said, looking at the private setup — string lights, fresh flowers, a chef preparing our meal in real-time.
"This is Tuesday," he corrected. "Wait until you see what I have planned for actual special occasions."
Over dinner, he asked me something no one had asked in years:
"What do you want, Aria? Not what's practical. Not what makes sense. What do YOU want?"
I paused, chopsticks frozen mid-air.
No one had ever asked me that. Not my parents, who expected excellence. Not Nathan, who expected obedience. Not even myself.
"I..." I set down my chopsticks. "I want to feel like I'm enough. Without performing. Without earning it."
Dominic reached across the table and took my hand.
"You have never once in your life not been enough." His voice was fierce. "The failure was always theirs. Never yours."
My throat tightened.
He squeezed my fingers. "What else?"
"I want to keep practicing medicine. I don't want to be just 'Mrs. Ashford' at charity galas."
"Done. You'll always be Dr. Sinclair first." He paused. "Unless you want to hyphenate?"
I smiled despite myself. "Maybe."
"What else?"
"I want..." I looked at the ocean, the vast freedom of it. "I want to stop being afraid that happiness has an expiration date."
Dominic stood up, came around the table, and knelt beside my chair.
"Aria Sinclair." He held both my hands, looking up at me with devastating sincerity. "I will spend every single day proving to you that this is permanent. That I am permanent. Until you believe it in your bones."
"You don't have to kneel—"
"I want to." His eyes were fierce. "You deserve a man on his knees. Not begging for forgiveness, but begging for the privilege of making you happy."
I pulled him up by his collar and kissed him.
It was our first real kiss — not born from anger or revenge or proving a point. Just two people finally choosing each other.
When we broke apart, Dominic's eyes were dazed, his breathing unsteady.
"Well," he managed. "That was worth five years of waiting."
I laughed against his mouth. "Only five?"
"I'd have waited fifty." He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. "I'd have waited forever."
...
We drove back that night, my hand in his, comfortable silence between us.
When we arrived home, his phone was exploding with notifications.
He glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened instantly.
"What?" I asked, reading the shift in his body language.
He turned the phone toward me.
A news article. Front page.
The headline made my blood run cold:
**"CROSS INDUSTRIES HEIR HOSPITALIZED AFTER APPARENT SUICIDE ATTEMPT"**
Below it, a photo of Nathan being wheeled into an ambulance, his wrists wrapped in white bandages soaked red.