The Grand Gesture
Celeste didn't know what was happening.
One moment, she was dragging her feet into the bedroom, emotionally drained and half-ready to collapse into bed. The next, she was staring at Adrian—standing in the middle of the room with two passports in one hand, and an almost boyish grin on his face.
"Pack your bags," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She blinked. "What?"
"We're leaving in an hour," he added, stepping toward her.
She crossed her arms. "Leaving? Where? Why?"
Adrian's voice softened as he approached, a seriousness flickering beneath the charm. "For you."
Her breath hitched. "Adrian..."
He didn't stop. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a familiar-looking envelope—weathered and creased. He handed it to her gently, almost like it was something sacred.
Celeste's brows furrowed as she opened it.
It was her handwriting.
Years-old. Ink faded.
Places I Want to Visit Someday.
Her heart clenched.
She had written it at the start of their marriage—back when she still believed that love alone could build forever. She thought he'd never seen it. That he'd dismissed it, like he did so many of her little dreams.
"You kept this?" she whispered.
Adrian gave her a sheepish smile. "I should've taken you to every one of those places already. I was too blind, too buried in everything that didn't matter."
He stepped closer, his voice trembling now. "But I remember. I remember everything about you, Celeste. So let's start crossing this list off. Just you and me."
She swallowed, emotions threatening to spill. "Adrian, I can't just—"
"I'm not giving you an out this time." He lifted the passports again, then nodded to a pair of sleek suitcases near the closet. "Everything's booked. I even packed your essentials. You can throw in more shoes if you want—but we're going."
She stared at him, stunned. "You seriously planned all of this?"
He gave a lopsided grin. "What can I say? I'm a romantic in recovery."
"Adrian—"
"I already told the your office you're on leave," he added nonchalantly. "And yes, I forged your signature on the form. You can sue me later."
Her mouth fell open. "You what?"
Adrian leaned in, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his voice low and unshakably sincere. "You've spent so much of your life sacrificing for everyone else. For once, let me put you first."
She hated how her heart responded—softening, aching, fluttering all at once.
"And where exactly are we going?" she asked, voice weaker now.
His grin widened as he dangled two first-class tickets in front of her. "Paris."
Her eyes widened. "You're joking."
"I never joke about croissants."
She gave him a long look. "If this is some kind of elaborate apology—"
"It's not," he said quickly. "It's the beginning of a promise. One I should've made a long time ago."
Her chest tightened. God, she wanted to resist. But everything about him—his eyes, the trembling honesty in his voice—made it impossible.
She sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if I get bored, I'm pushing you off the Eiffel Tower."
Adrian chuckled, stepping back. "Deal."
But as she turned to start packing, he caught her wrist gently.
"Celeste."
She looked up.
His gaze softened, a rare vulnerability shining through. "Thank you. For not giving up on me yet."
She blinked. Then, slowly, nodded. "Don't make me regret it."
—
Paris was colder than she expected, but Adrian had thought of that too.
The moment they stepped off the plane, a driver handed her a coat—soft, stylish, and exactly her size. The hotel they checked into overlooked the Seine. And the view from their suite window looked like something out of a dream.
Everything—everything—had been thought through.
He remembered her list down to the smallest detail.
"Since when do you care about itineraries?" she asked as he led her through cobbled streets glowing under strings of golden lights.
Adrian shot her a look, then smirked. "Since I realized happiness isn't spontaneous. It's chosen. And you're the one I want to keep choosing."
She rolled her eyes, even as her chest ached. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, still holding my hand," he said, lifting their entwined fingers.
She pulled her hand away. He laughed.
God, she hated him for making her smile.
—
By evening, Celeste should have known Adrian would go over the top.
They stepped out onto a rooftop restaurant that overlooked the Eiffel Tower, now twinkling like a galaxy in the heart of Paris. A private table was set up with candles, a trail of petals, and yes—an actual violinist playing a soft, haunting melody.
She turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to make me fall for you again?"
Adrian's voice dropped as he stepped closer. "Is it working?"
She bit her lip. Dammit.
She let him pull out her chair.
Dinner passed in a surreal haze of laughter, wine, and memories she didn't expect to enjoy. And just when she thought the night couldn't become any more intimate, Adrian reached into his coat pocket again—this time pulling out a small letter.
"What's this?" she asked warily.
He swallowed, suddenly looking younger—unsure. "A letter. I wrote it before we got married. I never gave it to you."
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Celeste,
I don't deserve you. Not then. Maybe not now.
But I love you.
And if I fail to show it, if I ever make you doubt it—just know it was never because I didn't. It was because I didn't know how to be the man you needed.
But I'm learning. And I'll keep learning. As long as it's you waiting for me at the end.
— Adrian
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them.
"Adrian..."
"I'm sorry," he said, voice breaking. "For forgetting how to love you right. For thinking I had all the time in the world to make it up to you."
She shook her head, blinking back the sting of emotion. "You idiot."
He smiled, but there was a glimmer in his eyes too. "I know."
Celeste didn't think. She just reached across the table, grabbed his shirt collar, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
It was desperate. Fierce. Honest.
And when she pulled away, breathless and trembling, he looked like a man who'd just been given a second life.
"So..." Adrian murmured, brushing his forehead against hers. "Does this mean you're keeping me?"
She stared at him.
Then rolled her eyes. "It means you've got a lot more proving to do, Mr. Sinclair."
Adrian grinned. "Good. Because I plan on spending forever doing it."
And for the first time in a long time, Celeste let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—forever with him didn't sound so bad.