Chapter 13
The arrest was swift and absolute.
Elena screamed, fought, and cursed my name as they dragged her away in handcuffs.
But I felt no satisfaction. Only exhaustion.
Dominic found me outside the museum, sitting on the steps in my evening gown, staring at nothing.
He sat beside me without speaking.
We stayed like that for a long time.
"It's over," I said finally.
"Yes."
"I don't feel anything."
"That'll come later," he said. "Right now, you're in shock."
"Dominic."
"Hmm?"
"Take me home."
He drove me back to my flat. The twins were safe at Natasha's, sleeping soundly.
At my door, Dominic hesitated.
"Do you want me to go?"
"No," I said. "I don't want you to go."
Inside, I didn't turn on the lights.
In the darkness of my living room, four years of armor finally cracked.
The tears came suddenly, violently — for the woman I'd been, the mother I'd become, the years I'd lost.
Dominic didn't try to stop them. He simply pulled me against his chest and held me while I fell apart.
"I've got you," he murmured into my hair. "I've got you."
"You hurt me so badly," I sobbed. "You believed her over me. You called our babies—"
"I know." His voice broke. "And I will hate myself for it until the day I die."
"I wanted to hate you," I said against his chest. "For so long, I needed to hate you to survive."
"And now?"
I pulled back and looked at his face in the moonlight.
This man who had destroyed me. This man who had rebuilt himself piece by piece to be worthy of our children.
This man who had bled for our son, even unknowingly, when he restructured his entire existence around becoming the father he'd failed to be.
"Now I'm tired of surviving," I whispered. "I want to live."
His forehead dropped to mine.
"Tell me what you need," he breathed.
"Time," I said. "More time. And patience."
"You have both. You have everything."
"And I need you to know that if I choose this — if I choose us — it won't be the same as before."
"I don't want the same as before," he said fiercely. "Before, I took you for granted. I put you in a glass case and called it love."
"This time, you are my equal. My partner. You answer to no one — least of all me."
I studied his eyes.
"Ask me again," I said. "What you asked that first night in New York."
His brow creased in confusion, then cleared.
"Are you happy?"
"Getting there," I said.
And for the first time in four years, I kissed him.
It was tentative, soft, barely more than a brush of lips.
But it was a beginning.
When we broke apart, his cheeks were wet.
"I don't deserve this," he said.
"No," I agreed. "But love was never about deserving."
Elena screamed, fought, and cursed my name as they dragged her away in handcuffs.
But I felt no satisfaction. Only exhaustion.
Dominic found me outside the museum, sitting on the steps in my evening gown, staring at nothing.
He sat beside me without speaking.
We stayed like that for a long time.
"It's over," I said finally.
"Yes."
"I don't feel anything."
"That'll come later," he said. "Right now, you're in shock."
"Dominic."
"Hmm?"
"Take me home."
He drove me back to my flat. The twins were safe at Natasha's, sleeping soundly.
At my door, Dominic hesitated.
"Do you want me to go?"
"No," I said. "I don't want you to go."
Inside, I didn't turn on the lights.
In the darkness of my living room, four years of armor finally cracked.
The tears came suddenly, violently — for the woman I'd been, the mother I'd become, the years I'd lost.
Dominic didn't try to stop them. He simply pulled me against his chest and held me while I fell apart.
"I've got you," he murmured into my hair. "I've got you."
"You hurt me so badly," I sobbed. "You believed her over me. You called our babies—"
"I know." His voice broke. "And I will hate myself for it until the day I die."
"I wanted to hate you," I said against his chest. "For so long, I needed to hate you to survive."
"And now?"
I pulled back and looked at his face in the moonlight.
This man who had destroyed me. This man who had rebuilt himself piece by piece to be worthy of our children.
This man who had bled for our son, even unknowingly, when he restructured his entire existence around becoming the father he'd failed to be.
"Now I'm tired of surviving," I whispered. "I want to live."
His forehead dropped to mine.
"Tell me what you need," he breathed.
"Time," I said. "More time. And patience."
"You have both. You have everything."
"And I need you to know that if I choose this — if I choose us — it won't be the same as before."
"I don't want the same as before," he said fiercely. "Before, I took you for granted. I put you in a glass case and called it love."
"This time, you are my equal. My partner. You answer to no one — least of all me."
I studied his eyes.
"Ask me again," I said. "What you asked that first night in New York."
His brow creased in confusion, then cleared.
"Are you happy?"
"Getting there," I said.
And for the first time in four years, I kissed him.
It was tentative, soft, barely more than a brush of lips.
But it was a beginning.
When we broke apart, his cheeks were wet.
"I don't deserve this," he said.
"No," I agreed. "But love was never about deserving."