Chapter Nineteen-Cecilia
I don’t think of myself as an emotional woman.
I’m a lawyer, for fuck’s sake. I’ve stood in courtrooms and gone toe-to-toe with prosecutors, CEOs, and more egos than I care to count. I’ve been called intimidating, cold, even unflappable.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have emotions.
Or dreams.
Or hopes I tucked away under power suits and bulletproof confidence.
Like everyone else, I imagined my wedding when I was a little girl.
Puffy white dress. Mile-high cake. String quartet playing something soft and sweet as I walked down the aisle. A handsome Prince Charming waiting for me at the end, promising forever with just one look.
Silly? Maybe.
But it was mine.
And then I met Alfred after law school. He wasn’t a prince.
Not even close.
But he was smart. Steady. Reasonably attractive. Polished in that boring, buttoned-up way that felt like safety. He fit.
Or I thought he did.
“Dad hated him right away,” I tell Atlas, curled against his warm chest. “Mom waited to make up her mind. She said she wanted to support my decision, knowing if she said no, I’d just dig my heels in.”
Atlas chuckles, low and rough. “Smart woman.”
I smile weakly. “Yeah. She knows me better than anyone. I guess, I’ve always been trying to prove myself.”
“What was his name?”
“Alfred,” I say, then pause.
I don’t offer the last name. I can feel the shift in him—how his muscles tighten slightly, how his possessiveness sharpens.
He might not love me, but I’m his wife now, and I know that protective instinct is written into his bones.
I shake my head softly. “It’s not important what his name is.”
“Disagree,” he growls.
“The point is,” I continue, “I haven’t told you everything. And even though this marriage isn’t—”
I swallow, then push through the discomfort, “Even though it isn’t real, I feel like I should.”
Atlas’s hand stills over my back, but his voice is deep and sure.
“Before you do, kardhoúla, I think there’s one thing you need to understand.”
“What?” I whisper.
“This marriage is completely binding. Legal. And for all intents and purposes, it is very real. You are my wife. Now, tell me about this previous engagement.”
Oh.
The way he says wife does something to me I can’t name. Not without shaking.
I press my cheek to his bare chest.
“Did you love him very much?” he asks softly.
“Love? Um, at the time I thought I did. But now? No, I don’t think I really did. I just wanted what my parents have. What all the couples in my family seem to have. That big, messy, all-consuming kind of love.”
He huffs a low laugh.
“Ah, the famous Volkov and Fury love affairs. People speak of them like legends.”
I smile faintly. “Yeah. So, you can imagine the pressure to find your own happy-ever-after when you’re the daughter of one of those said love affairs. Anyway, when Alfred proposed, I said yes. And after that, I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I tried to make him happy.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate.
“Little things at first. Straightening my hair more. Taking out my piercings. I knew he wanted a family, so I did the responsible thing. Got a full check-up. He did too.”
I can feel Atlas frown, the tension creeping into his body, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He didn’t like my tattoos showing, so the places where they did, he asked me to get them removed. And I agreed. I even scheduled my first laser appointment.”
His jaw ticks.
“And then the doctor called. Said I had some unusual test results.”
I take a breath.
“Turns out I was born with only one ovary. And I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. PCOS.”
He still doesn’t speak.
“Basically,” I go on, voice quieter, “it means pregnancy would be difficult. Unlikely, really, without help from a clinic. And even then, there are no guarantees.”
Atlas’s breath is steady, but it feels like he’s holding himself in place.
“What did Alfred do?” he asks after a beat.
“What did he do?” I let out a breathy laugh. “He panicked. Told me he wasn’t ready for ‘that level of complication.’ Said being married to me was more trouble than it was worth—even with my name, my family, my connections.”
My voice cracks, just a little.
“So he backed out of the engagement. I gave him back the ring, and I started to put my piercings back on.”
Silence. I’m touching my left wrist, and Atlas lifts it gently, turning it in his hand.
He traces the delicate sun inked on my skin, its rays bold and fine.
His thumb brushes over it like it’s something sacred.
“When did you get this?”
“After we broke up. My cousin Lucy drew it for me. I had it done somewhere I’d always see it.”
“What does it mean?” he asks softly.
“That no matter how bad things feel today,” I whisper, “the sun will still rise tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say anything.
But he doesn’t have to.
He pulls me tighter into his arms, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself be held.
Really held.
Because for tonight, in this moment, I’m not a lawyer.
Not a disappointment. Not someone too complicated to love.
I’m a woman.
His wife.
And maybe, just maybe, this thing we’re pretending to have isn’t pretend anymore.