Chapter 9
I woke before dawn with Damian's arm across my waist and a question already waiting for me.
What now?
The answer did not arrive because someone had kissed me in a safehouse and made me forget, for a few hours, that our marriage began with a debt.
It did not arrive because he had told me about Rafe in the rain, or because I had seen something unguarded in him and wanted to believe it meant the guarded parts would disappear.
His hand was warm against my stomach. His breathing was slow and even. In sleep, the lines around his mouth softened. He looked younger. More dangerous, somehow, because I could see the man under the armor and understand how much he had built around him.
I lay still for a moment, listening to the rain taper against the windows.
Then his eyes opened.
"You are thinking too loudly," he said.
"That is not possible."
"It is with you."
I turned on my side to face him. "That sounds like an insult."
"It is an observation."
"You are very bad at romance."
"I have been told."
The words brought back the night before. His body against mine. The patience in his voice when he asked. The fact that he had waited for every answer instead of assuming the one he wanted.
Heat rose into my face. Damian noticed. Of course he did.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
The question was too serious for the lightness in the room. I appreciated that he did not make a joke of it.
"I am all right," I said. "I am also confused."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
"Do you regret it?"
His expression changed. Not anger. Something more immediate.
"No."
The certainty in his voice made me look away.
"Do you?" he asked.
I thought about it carefully.
"No," I said. "But I do not want last night to become a way for us to avoid the things we still have to talk about."
"It will not."
"You say that easily."
"I am trying to say things more directly."
"That does seem to be your new hobby."
He touched my cheek with the back of two fingers. The gesture was so gentle it made my throat tighten.
"You are allowed to change your mind about me," he said.
"That is not what I am worried about."
"What are you worried about?"
I sat up, pulling the sheet around myself. The safehouse bedroom had a small chair near the window and a dresser scarred by years of use. It felt less like a place designed for us than his house did. That made it easier to be honest.
"I am worried that I will start understanding you and use that as an excuse for everything you have done wrong," I said. "I do not want to become the woman who confuses being wanted with being respected."
Damian sat up too. He did not reach for me this time.
"You should not," he said.
The answer hurt in its own way. I had expected defense. Perhaps a promise that he would never disrespect me. Instead he gave me the truth I had asked for.
"I want to respect you," he continued. "I do not always know how to do that without feeling like I am failing to keep you safe."
"That is not my job to solve for you."
"I know."
"Then solve it."
For a second, his mouth almost curved.
"All right," he said.
We returned to the Voss estate after sunrise. The road back to the city was wet and empty. Nico drove this time, and he spent the first ten minutes pretending not to notice that Damian and I were sitting closer together than we had on the way out.
Finally he glanced at us in the mirror.
"So," he said.
"No," Damian said.
Nico grinned. "I did not ask anything."
"You were about to."
"I was about to ask whether Mrs. Voss has any allergies. Mrs. Alvarez is planning dinner."
"You are impossible," I said.
"That is what Damian said about you."
Damian looked at him. Nico turned his attention back to the road, still smiling.
At the estate, I found three messages from clients waiting on my phone.
One was from Natalie Greer, full of apologies for the shooting outside the Conservatory and gratitude that no one had been hurt.
Another was from a prospective client asking whether it was true that I was now "associated with the Voss family," followed by a cancellation that used the words family considerations twice.
The third was from Sebastian.
I sat on the edge of the bed in my room and read it three times.
I heard about the incident last night. I hope you are safe. Please let me know you are safe.
There was nothing cruel in the message. That almost made it worse.
Damian paused in the doorway. He had changed into a dark sweater and trousers, his hair still damp from the shower. He saw the phone in my hand and did not ask what I was reading.
"A client canceled," I said instead.
"Because of me."
"Because of your name. Which is now also mine."
His face tightened. "I can have Adrian speak to them."
"No."
"Elena -"
"No." I stood. "I do not want a frightened bride bullied into trusting me. I want my clients to choose me because they believe I can do my job."
"I was not suggesting intimidation."
"What were you suggesting?"
He hesitated. "A conversation. Reassurance."
"From the Voss family?"
He looked away. "Point taken."
"You cannot fix every consequence of being married to you."
"That does not mean I should ignore them."
The frustration in his voice surprised me. Not because he was angry with me. Because he seemed angry at himself for not having a clean answer.
I softened a little. "I am not asking you to ignore it. I am asking you to let me decide how I handle my business."
His gaze came back to mine. "All right."
"And I am going to answer Sebastian."
The words settled heavily between us.
He did not react at first. Then a muscle moved in his jaw.
"You should," he said.
"You are not going to tell me not to?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
The honesty caught me off guard.
"But you are allowed to speak to people who care whether you survived a shooting," he said. "Even people who hurt you."
I looked down at the message again.
I am safe. Thank you for checking, I wrote. I hope you are well.
I did not add anything else.
After Damian left my room, I sat on the floor with the canceled client's email open on my laptop.
It was an elegant refusal. That was the phrase I would have used if I were describing a venue that had just told a bride her date was unavailable.
The sender apologized for the "unanticipated public attention" surrounding my marriage.
She said her daughter wanted a peaceful wedding day. She said she hoped I understood.
I understood too well.
A wedding was supposed to be a sanctuary from whatever came before it. My name had become a doorway through which other people's fears could enter the room.
I wanted to be angry at the bride. I wanted to call her and say that I had planned weddings for people whose families hated one another, people with illnesses, people who had lost jobs, people who had spent years waiting for the law to let them stand beside the person they loved.
I wanted to tell her that peace was never something you got by refusing to look at danger.
Instead I wrote back.
I understand. I hope your daughter has a beautiful day.
Then I closed the laptop and cried because grace felt too much like surrender when you were tired.
Mia arrived without calling. Mrs. Alvarez led her upstairs after a brief argument about whether a guest should sign in. I heard the door open and did not look up.
"I brought pastries," Mia said.
"That is Adrian's move."
"He does not own pastries."
She sat on the floor beside me and placed a paper bag between us. The kitchen at the studio had introduced me to dozens of versions of this silence: brides before bad news, mothers after arguments, assistants after mistakes. Mia knew when not to fill it.
"A client canceled," I said eventually.
"I saw the email."
"You did?"
"She copied the studio address. Because she wanted us to know it was not about the flowers."
I laughed without humor. "At least she was clear."
Mia pulled an almond croissant from the bag and broke it in half. "Do you want me to call her?"
"No."
"Do you want me to write a very professional email that makes her feel stupid?"
"Maybe."
"I am excellent at those."
"I know."
She offered me half the pastry. I took it, even though I was not hungry.
"Is he trying to fix it?" she asked.
"Damian?"
Mia nodded.
"Yes. In his way."
"Which is?"
"He offered to have Adrian speak to them. I said no. He agreed. Then he looked like he wanted to punch a wall because he had agreed."
Mia considered this. "That is not nothing."
"No. It is not enough either."
"Nothing is enough after a week like this."
I looked at the pale walls, the black window frames, the garden beyond. Everything in this house looked calm from a distance. That was the trick of expensive things. They made peace look structural.
"I slept with him," I said.
Mia froze with pastry halfway to her mouth.
"You did what?"
"We were in a safehouse. There had been a shooting. He told me about his dead friend. He asked me if he could kiss me. It became a night."
"And you wanted it?"
"Yes."
"And you are sure?"
"Yes."
The certainty came faster than I expected. It did not erase every complication. It did not turn the marriage into a love story with a clean beginning. But I had wanted him. I would not betray myself by pretending otherwise.
Mia leaned back against the bed.
"All right," she said. "Then we talk about what that means to you, not what people are going to say about it."
The kindness in her voice made my eyes sting.
"I do not know what it means," I admitted. "I know he is trying. I know he is infuriating. I know I feel safer when he is in the room, which makes me angry because I hate needing that."
"Needing someone is not the same as giving them the right to control you."
I looked at her.
"You can want him and still make rules," she said. "You can love him and still leave if he refuses to learn. You do not have to choose between being independent and being cared for."
The words settled slowly.