19. Zola #2
"I never touched her. Not once in eight months." No hesitation. "I couldn't. Every time I looked at her, all I saw was what I'd given up for Uncle Vittorio's dying wish. All I felt was empty."
Maeve's completely limp now, dead weight against his chest. He holds her like it's natural, like he's done this a thousand times instead of just a few weeks' worth of afternoons.
"What do you want from me?" The question comes out tired. I've been so angry, so hurt, so convinced he'd betrayed me. Now all that rage is draining away and leaving exhaustion in its wake.
"Another chance." No hesitation. "To prove I meant everything I said. That you and Maeve—you're what I want. Not status, not some strategic marriage, not the life my uncle planned for me. Just you."
"I told you to leave five days ago."
"I know."
"I ignored your text."
"I know."
"And you just... show up anyway?" But there's no heat in it. I'm too wrung out to be properly angry anymore.
"Because I wasn't going to let you decide this was over based on her showing up to lie to you.
" That word—her—drips with contempt. "You deserve the truth.
And then you can decide if you want me here or not.
But this time, I can't let you just shove me away and take it, not without you knowing the full truth. "
Maeve's breathing is a soft, steady rhythm. Her face is peaceful in a way it hasn't been all week. Even in sleep, she knows she's safe with him.
I've missed him so much it physically hurt. Missed his presence in the bookstore, his easy competence with Maeve, the way he made everything feel manageable just by being here. Missed the way he looked at me like I was something worth treasuring instead of a burden to manage.
"No more lies." My voice is barely above a whisper. "If we do this—if I give you another chance—I need complete honesty. No protecting me from things you think will hurt. No strategic omissions. Nothing."
"Nothing." He agrees immediately. "I promise."
"And we're starting over." I straighten slightly, trying to find some firmness in my spine. "From the very beginning. Not picking up where we left off eight years ago. Not pretending the last few days didn't happen. Starting completely fresh."
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hope. "Whatever you need."
"I'm serious, Declan." I need him to understand how much this matters. "You don't get to walk back in and act like nothing changed. Everything changed. I changed. You changed. We need to figure out if we even work anymore."
"We work." But he doesn't push it, doesn't argue. "But I'll prove it. However long it takes."
Maeve makes a small sound, her body going even more boneless as she sinks deeper into sleep. She hasn't slept properly in days—none of us have. But tucked against Declan's chest, she's finally peaceful.
"She missed you." I don't mean to say it but it slips out anyway. "Wouldn't stop crying. Kept looking at the door like she was waiting for you to come back."
"I know. I'm sorry." His hand cups the back of her head, protective and gentle. "I hated staying away. But I needed to handle my situation first."
"Is it handled?" I gesture to the papers still clutched in my hand. "Actually handled this time?"
"Bianca's moved in with Vale. The annulment will be final in thirty days. My stuff is in the old house and I'm done with that other life." He pauses. "So yes. It's handled."
I want to believe him. Every part of me that spent years missing him, wondering if I made the right choice, desperately hoping he hadn't actually moved on—all of it wants to accept what he's offering and not look back.
But I'm scared. Terrified of letting him in again only to have it blow up worse than before.
"Starting over means taking this slow." I force myself to meet his eyes. "No jumping back into... whatever we had before. We date properly. We figure out if this can actually work with Maeve in the picture and your business and my responsibilities here."
"Slow." He nods. "I can do slow."
"And you're okay with that?" Because the Declan I knew eight years ago wanted everything—wanted me completely, wanted commitment, wanted forever. "Really okay with taking it slow instead of just picking up where we left off?"
"I'm okay with whatever keeps you in my life." Simple. Direct. "If slow is what you need, then that's what we'll do."
Maeve shifts slightly, makes a sleepy sound of contentment. Her little hand flexes against his shirt before relaxing again.
"She's exhausted." I move closer despite myself, drawn by the sight of her finally resting peacefully. "Hasn't slept more than an hour at a stretch all week."
"Neither have you." His eyes track over my face, noting details I wish he wouldn't. "When's the last time you ate something?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not an answer."
"Naomi brought food earlier. I had some." A few bites before my stomach rebelled. Close enough.
His expression says he doesn't believe me but he doesn't push it. Just shifts Maeve carefully, mindful of her sleeping weight.
"You want me to take her upstairs? Put her in the crib so you can finish closing up?"
"I..." The offer lodges in my throat. Having him here, in the apartment, feels too intimate. Too much like before. "I can manage."
"I know you can." Patient. Gentle. "But you don't have to."
And that's always been the problem, hasn't it? He makes it so easy to let him help. To let him take care of things. To lean into his strength instead of forcing myself to handle everything alone.
"Okay." The word comes out small. "You can take her up."