Chapter 36
RAPHAEL
This was not how I intended to say it. Not in an office. Not mid-argument. Not with her standing across from me like I had detonated something delicate.
And yet, here we were.
If I am honest, there was a small, dangerous part of me that admired her when she was like this. I liked the fire in her eyes. I liked that she was here fighting for herself, even when the opponent was me.
She did not shrink. She never had.
“I have no intention of divorcing you,” I repeated, more evenly this time.
She stared at me as though I had just shifted the language of the contract without warning.
“You can’t just decide that,” she said quietly.
“I am not deciding alone.”
“It sounds like you are.”
I moved closer, not crowding her, but closing the distance between us.
“This has not been temporary for me,” I told her.
Her breath catches.
“It has not been a business arrangement for quite some time.”
She searched my face for calculation. She would not find it.
“When?” she asked.
I almost smiled.
“When did it change?” I echoed softly. “I am not certain it ever was what we pretended.”
Her brows knit together. “It started as insurance,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And cooking.”
“Yes.”
“And a contract.”
“Yes . . . but for me,” I continue, “it became something else very quickly.”
“How quickly?” she whispers.
“Probably the whole time, if I was honest. But if I had to choose, it was that night you first fell asleep with your head on my shoulder.”
The truth landed heavier than I expected. All the fight left her at once. It drained out of her shoulders, out of her jaw. She just . . . stared at me.
I stepped fully into her space and lifted my hands to her face.
She didn’t pull away. Her skin was warm beneath my palms.
“You think I would purchase your company and secure your father’s care for a woman I intend to discard?” I ask softly.
Her throat moved. “I think you don’t always realize how much power you wield.”
That was fair. I softened my grip, thumbs brushing lightly along her cheekbones.
“It is real for me,” I said quietly.
Her eyes shine, but she does not look triumphant; she looks overwhelmed.
“You are not temporary,” I continued. “You are not an obligation. You are not a contract.”
I lowered my forehead to hers.
“You are my wife.”
The word felt different now.
“I choose you,” I added, softer still.
Then I kissed her. Slow. Intentional. It was a promise pressed into her mouth.
For a heartbeat, she melted into it. Her hands slid up my chest, fingers curling lightly in my shirt.
Then something shifted. She pulled back abruptly and placed her hands against my chest, pushing me away.
The spell broke.
I studied her.
“What?” I ask quietly.
She took a shaky breath. “How do I know this isn’t just you trying to fix something?” she asked.
“It is not.”
“You fix everything.”
“I am not fixing this.”
She shook her head. “I’m confused,” she admitted.
That word unsettles me. I hate this. Why do I keep getting it all wrong?
“About what?” I ask carefully.
“About what’s real,” she said. “About where I stand. About whether I’m falling in love with a man or being absorbed by one.”
The distinction sliced. I stepped back, giving her space.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I know I have feelings for you. I know I don’t want this to end. But I also don’t want to wake up one day and realize I disappeared inside your life.”
I let the silence stretch. Because this is not something I can purchase or restructure.
This required patience, and I am not accustomed to that.
“I do not want you to disappear,” I said finally. “I want you here. Fully.”
She looked at me like she wanted to believe that.
And for the first time since this argument began, I realized loving her may require me to relinquish the one tool I have always relied upon.
Control.
Perhaps I had misjudged everything.
Perhaps what felt inevitable to me did not feel inevitable to her.
The possibility settles heavily in my chest.
“Do you wish to proceed with the divorce?” I ask.
The question tastes wrong, but it was the only one that cuts cleanly through assumptions.
She blinked at me.
“No,” she says immediately. Then, “Yes.” Then she exhales sharply. “I don’t know.”
The uncertainty in her voice scraped at something raw inside of me.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, quieter now.
I held myself still. Explain it, I want to say. Help me understand.
“It’s the power dynamic,” she said. “You keep acting like this is simple. Like you can just . . . fix everything.”
“I can fix external threats,” I replied.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Her voice wasn’t raised anymore. It was steady, which is somehow worse.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
The words hit harder than anything else tonight.
“Of what?” I ask carefully.
“Of counting on you for everything.”
“I want you to.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
I fell silent.
“If I let you pay for Dad,” she continued, “if I let you own my company, if I let you become the reason my life works. What happens if you change your mind?”
“I will not.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“No, you can’t.” The firmness in her voice pulls me up short. “No one can promise forever,” she said.
The sentence lands like a physical blow, because I know.
I know that better than anyone. I promised Elise forever. I promised safety. I promised to be there. And forever ended in a single phone call.
My jaw tightened. She saw it.
“You know that,” she says softly.
I swallowed. “I would not abandon you,” I said quietly.
“I believe you think that,” she replied. “But life changes people. Grief changes people. Circumstances change.”
She steps closer, not confrontational, but earnest.
“If I give up my independence completely and something shifts—if you wake up one day and realize this isn’t what you want—I’m the one who falls.”
The image came unbidden. Her van in winter. Her alone again.
My chest tightened painfully.
“I would never put you there,” I said.
“You can’t promise that.”
The repetition stripped my certainty.
She inhaled shakily. “I have feelings for you,” she says.
The words should steady me. Instead, they make this harder.
“I care about you. I might even—” She stopped herself.
My heart pounded.
“But this feels like uneven footing to start a real relationship on,” she finished.
Uneven footing. Because I tilted the ground. Because I moved too fast. Because I tried to solve it instead of standing beside her.
I could feel it now. The shift. I was losing her.
And for the first time in a long time, there is nothing I could purchase to stop it.
“What would make it even?” I asked quietly.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
That answer terrifies me more than divorce ever could.
“I need to think,” she said.
The words were careful.
I nod. I couldn’t do anything else. Forcing would only confirm her fear, and control would destroy this completely.
“Take the time you require,” I said evenly.
She studied my face for a long moment.
Then she turned and walked out of the office.
I didn’t follow. I remained standing in the middle of the room, hands at my sides, the weight of her uncertainty settling over me like a bitter winter.
I had dismantled companies.
I had built an empire.
Yet, I do not know how to rebuild trust without overstepping.