Chapter 13
We took it slow. Dominic insisted — he wanted everything to be right. Proper. Unrushed.
He proposed on a Sunday morning, three months later, with Leo on his lap and a ring in a box that was clearly too large for the modest diamond inside.
"I asked Harper what kind of ring you'd want," he admitted, slightly embarrassed. "She said you'd hate anything flashy."
She was right. It was a simple gold band with a single stone. Classic. Solid.
Like him.
"Yes," I said, before he even asked the question.
He blinked. "I had a speech prepared."
"Save it for the wedding."
He laughed — a real, full laugh that I'd only heard a handful of times. It transformed his whole face, and I committed it to memory.
We married in a courthouse on a Tuesday. Harper was my witness. Their mother cried. My parents stood behind me with steady, proud hands on my shoulders.
Leo wore a tiny bow tie and slept through the entire thing.
After, we ate lunch at the Thai restaurant down the block from Dominic's office, and I felt the kind of happiness that wasn't loud or performative. It was the quiet kind. The durable kind.
That evening, as we drove home — *our* home, the sage-green nursery home — my phone buzzed.
It was a news notification.
**"Ryan Ashford Charged With Financial Fraud: Former Investment Analyst Accused of Client Fund Mismanagement"**
The article detailed how Ryan's firm had discovered unauthorized transfers — not just from our marriage, but from client accounts. His obsession with funding Sienna's life had apparently extended beyond our shared finances.
He was facing criminal charges. Possible prison time.
I stared at the headline for a long moment.
Then I turned off my phone and looked at Dominic driving beside me, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to check Leo's car seat was secure for the third time.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Everything's perfect."
And I meant it.
Some people teach you what love isn't. They hollow you out and call it compromise. They take and take and frame it as generosity toward someone else.
But the right person — the *right* one — doesn't ask you to shrink. Doesn't ask you to sacrifice your child for someone else's happiness. Doesn't make you feel crazy for wanting what's yours.
The right person shows up with court orders and chamomile tea and badly-sized ring boxes, and says *you're enough* in a hundred quiet ways.
He proposed on a Sunday morning, three months later, with Leo on his lap and a ring in a box that was clearly too large for the modest diamond inside.
"I asked Harper what kind of ring you'd want," he admitted, slightly embarrassed. "She said you'd hate anything flashy."
She was right. It was a simple gold band with a single stone. Classic. Solid.
Like him.
"Yes," I said, before he even asked the question.
He blinked. "I had a speech prepared."
"Save it for the wedding."
He laughed — a real, full laugh that I'd only heard a handful of times. It transformed his whole face, and I committed it to memory.
We married in a courthouse on a Tuesday. Harper was my witness. Their mother cried. My parents stood behind me with steady, proud hands on my shoulders.
Leo wore a tiny bow tie and slept through the entire thing.
After, we ate lunch at the Thai restaurant down the block from Dominic's office, and I felt the kind of happiness that wasn't loud or performative. It was the quiet kind. The durable kind.
That evening, as we drove home — *our* home, the sage-green nursery home — my phone buzzed.
It was a news notification.
**"Ryan Ashford Charged With Financial Fraud: Former Investment Analyst Accused of Client Fund Mismanagement"**
The article detailed how Ryan's firm had discovered unauthorized transfers — not just from our marriage, but from client accounts. His obsession with funding Sienna's life had apparently extended beyond our shared finances.
He was facing criminal charges. Possible prison time.
I stared at the headline for a long moment.
Then I turned off my phone and looked at Dominic driving beside me, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to check Leo's car seat was secure for the third time.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Everything's perfect."
And I meant it.
Some people teach you what love isn't. They hollow you out and call it compromise. They take and take and frame it as generosity toward someone else.
But the right person — the *right* one — doesn't ask you to shrink. Doesn't ask you to sacrifice your child for someone else's happiness. Doesn't make you feel crazy for wanting what's yours.
The right person shows up with court orders and chamomile tea and badly-sized ring boxes, and says *you're enough* in a hundred quiet ways.