18. Declan
DECLAN
The movers arrive at nine the next morning.
I'm standing in the kitchen with coffee I haven't touched when the doorbell rings. Stellan appears from the living room where he's been working on his laptop—he showed up at seven without being asked, took one look at my face, and settled in like he planned to stay all day.
"That'll be them." He closes his laptop, stands. "You want to supervise or should I?"
"You." I can't watch strangers box up Bianca's things without wanting to set everything on fire. "I'll be upstairs."
But I don't go upstairs. I stand at the window in the formal dining room—the one I've never eaten in, never even sat in—and watch as three men in matching shirts start loading boxes into a truck. Dorian's truck, I realize. He sent his own people to collect her.
The irony would be funny if I could feel anything resembling humor right now.
Stellan directs them with the kind of precision he brings to everything. Points to Bianca's car still in the driveway, watches as they load it onto a flatbed. Her clothes come out in garment bags, her shoes in labeled boxes, her expensive art that I never looked at wrapped in protective paper.
It takes four hours.
Four hours to erase eight months of a marriage that never should have happened. Four hours to clear out the remnants of Uncle Vittorio's final manipulation. Four hours to reclaim space in a house I've hated since the day I moved in.
When the last box is loaded and the trucks pull away, I'm still standing at that window. The house feels different now—emptier, but not in a bad way. Like a wound that's been cleaned out, raw but ready to heal.
Stellan finds me there.
"They got everything." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Vale confirmed she's moved into his place in Manayunk. Sent his thanks for not breaking his face."
"Day's not over yet."
"Fair." He moves into the room, stands beside me at the window. "What now?"
I look around the dining room. At the table that seats twelve, the chandelier that cost more than most people's cars, the china cabinet full of dishes I've never used. At the formal living room visible through the doorway with its pristine furniture and decorative pillows arranged just so.
"I want to burn it down."
Stellan doesn't laugh. Doesn't tell me I'm being dramatic. He just nods slowly, like he's actually considering it.
"You could." His voice is measured, careful. "Accidentally leave the stove on, electrical fire, insurance fraud. I know a guy."
For a second, I seriously consider it. Watch the fantasy play out—flames eating through the expensive crown molding, smoke blackening the walls, the whole structure collapsing in on itself until there's nothing left but ash and the memory of the worst year of my life.
"But," Stellan continues, "that seems like a lot of work when you could just sell it instead."
"Sell it." I taste the words, trying to make them feel real.
"Yeah. Get rid of it properly. Use the money for something that doesn't make you homicidal." He pauses. "Like maybe fixing up that old house you've been pretending doesn't exist."
The old house.
I haven't been back there in over a year. Couldn't stomach it after the wedding, couldn't handle walking through rooms that still smelled like her vanilla body wash and coffee. I'd locked the door, left everything exactly as it was the day she left, and tried to pretend it didn't exist.
"It's still there," Stellan says quietly. "Still locked up. Still full of her things."
"I know."
"So move back." He says it like it's obvious, like the solution's been sitting there waiting for me to notice it. "Pack up whatever you actually want from this mausoleum and go back to the place that felt like home."
"With all her stuff still there?" The thought makes my chest hurt. "That's pathetic."
"You know what's pathetic?" Stellan turns to look at me directly. "Spending eight years dying in progressively bigger houses because you're too stubborn to admit you never stopped loving her. At least the old place has good memories."
He's right. God, I hate that he's right.
The old house in Chestnut Hill with its reasonable size and lived-in kitchen and bedroom that still has her hair tie on the nightstand. The place where I learned to cook for her, where she'd curl up on the couch with her textbooks, where we built something real before I let my uncle destroy it.
"Call the guys," I hear myself say. "I want to move today."
It takes less time to pack up my actual belongings than it did to remove Bianca's.
Turns out I don't own much. Clothes mostly—suits and shirts and shoes that fill three garment bags and two boxes. My laptop, some files I keep at home, a watch my father gave me before he died. Everything else in this house belongs to the house itself or to Bianca's expensive taste.
Jamie and Vincent show up with a truck at two. They don't ask questions, just start loading what I point to while Stellan coordinates like he's running a military operation.
"Kitchen stuff?" Jamie asks, gesturing to the pristine cookware I've barely touched since moving in.
"Leave it." I'm packing books in my office—the few I've actually read, the ones that aren't just for show. "Everything in the kitchen stays."
"You sure? Some of this is nice."
"I have kitchen stuff at the old place." Better stuff. Pans I actually seasoned, knives I know how to use, the cast iron skillet I learned to cook with. "This is all just... expensive."
Vincent appears in the doorway. "What about the bedroom?"
"Clothes and the nightstand. Everything else stays." I close a box, tape it shut harder than necessary. "The bed, the furniture, all of it. I don't want anything that was in that room."
Because Bianca might not have slept in my bed, but she existed in that space. Her perfume probably clings to the air, her presence contaminated everything. I'd rather sleep on the floor in the old house than bring any of that with me.
By four, we're done.
I do one last walk-through while the guys load the truck. Room by room, making sure I'm not leaving anything that matters. The formal dining room with its unused china—don't care. The living room with its decorator-chosen furniture—don't care. The library with its empty shelves—never cared.
The master bedroom I used. My closet, now empty except for Bianca's things in her section. The bathroom that still smells like her expensive products. The walk-in closet where my suits used to hang in perfect rows.
I close that door and don't look back.
Stellan's waiting by the front entrance when I come downstairs.
"That everything?"
"Yeah." I pull the keys from my pocket, look at them for a long moment. "I assume you can handle listing this place?"
"Already called a realtor I trust. She'll be here tomorrow to do the assessment." He plucks the keys from my hand. "I'll deal with the showings, the paperwork, all of it. You just sign where I tell you."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Seriously—don't. I have a reputation as a heartless bastard to maintain." But he's smiling slightly, that rare expression that says he's genuinely pleased about something.
We take separate cars to Chestnut Hill. Me following Stellan, Vincent and Jamie behind me in the truck with my belongings. The drive feels longer than it should, every mile weighted with anticipation and dread in equal measure.
The old house sits exactly as I left it.
Stone walls, iron gates, security system still armed from the last time I was here. The guards at the entrance do a double-take when they see me, but they wave us through without comment.
I park in the circular drive and just sit for a moment, staring at the front door.
"You going to get out or just look at it?" Stellan taps on my window.
I force myself to move, to walk up the steps I've climbed a thousand times. The key sticks slightly in the lock—from disuse, probably. The alarm beeps and I enter the code, muscle memory taking over.
Then I step inside and stop breathing.
It smells the same.
Not like Zola—it’s been too long for her vanilla scent to linger. But it smells like the life we had here. Like the furniture polish the cleaning service used, like the specific way air moves through these rooms, like coming home after too long away.
"Jesus." Stellan steps in behind me. "This is..."
"Yeah."
The furniture is exactly where I left it.
Couch in the living room with the throw blanket she liked draped over one arm.
Coffee table with a few of her textbooks still stacked on the corner—I couldn't bring myself to move them.
Kitchen visible through the archway with the island where she'd sit on the bar stools while I cooked.
Jamie and Vincent are carefully neutral as they start bringing boxes in. Setting them in the entry hallway, waiting for direction on where things should go.
"Bedroom," I tell them, pointing upstairs. "Just leave everything in there. I'll unpack later."
They nod and disappear with the first load.
I move through the house slowly, cataloging what's changed—nothing—and what's stayed the same—everything.
The living room where Zola would curl up with her anatomy textbooks, complaining about having to memorize muscle insertions.
The kitchen where I learned to make her favorite foods because making sure she ate felt like the only way I could take care of her.
The bathroom where her shampoo bottle still sits in the shower.
The bedroom where her hair tie is still on the nightstand.
Stellan finds me standing in the kitchen, running my hand over the marble countertop.
"You okay?"
"I cooked for her here." The words come out rough. "Every night I wasn't working. She'd sit right there—" I gesture to the bar stools "—and pretend she didn't want to be taken care of while I made her eat actual food instead of coffee and determination."
"I remember." Stellan leans against the counter. "You drove me insane talking about what you were going to make her. 'Stellan, do you think she'd like this pasta?' 'Stellan, is this sauce too fancy?' Like I gave a shit about your domestic phase."
"You helped me pick out the ring." I look at him. "You gave a shit."
"Yeah, well." He clears his throat. "You were less insufferable when she was around. Seemed worth encouraging."
The guys finish unloading. Stellan tips them, sends them off with instructions to keep their mouths shut about where I'm living now. Not that it matters—no one knows where I live that doesn't need to—but old habits.
"You need help unpacking?" Stellan asks.
"No." I'm already moving toward the stairs. "I've got it."
"Declan." His voice stops me. "You know being back here doesn't fix anything, right? This house, her things still in it—that's all just set dressing. You still have to actually talk to her."
"I know."
"Do you?" He follows me to the base of the stairs. "Because you've been avoiding that conversation. And now you're back in the house where you built a life with her, surrounded by reminders of what you lost, and I'm worried you're going to convince yourself that's enough."
"It's not enough." I grip the banister. "But I can't go to her yet. Not when the annulment isn't final, not when I can't prove that Bianca's gone and never meant anything. She told me to leave. I need to give her space while I handle my shit."
"How much space?"
"However much she needs."
Stellan studies me for a long moment. "Fine. But don't wait too long. She's not going to magically decide to forgive you because you're pining dramatically in your old house."
"I'm aware."
He shakes his head, grabs his jacket from where he'd tossed it on the couch. "Call me if you need anything. Or if you decide to burn down the other house after all. I'm flexible."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone.
I stand in the entryway of my old house—my real house—and feel something settle in my chest. Something that's been out of place since I lost her, slightly misaligned, making every breath hurt.
This is where I was supposed to be. Not in that massive empty mausoleum with its unused rooms and pristine furniture. Here. In the space where I learned what it meant to love someone, to take care of them, to build a life that mattered.
I climb the stairs slowly, each step familiar in a way that makes my throat tight. The bedroom door is open, boxes stacked inside. But I don't go there yet.
Instead, I walk to the guest bathroom. Open the shower. And there it is—her shampoo bottle, half-empty, the label faded from steam and time.
I pick it up. Twist the cap open. The scent hits me like a punch—vanilla and something floral, distinctly her. My knees nearly give out.
Eight years. Eight years I've kept this place locked up like a shrine, unable to let go but also unable to face what I'd lost. Eight years of pretending I could move on while keeping every reminder of her exactly where she left it.
I close the bottle carefully. Put it back in the shower. Move to the bedroom.
Her hair tie is still on the nightstand. Dark brown, slightly stretched out from use. I remember watching her pull it from her wrist, gathering her braids into a ponytail before bed. Remember the way she'd leave it there in the morning, forget it until the next night when she'd need it again.
I pick it up. Slip it into my pocket.
Then I start unpacking my clothes, hanging them in the closet where my suits used to live. Arranging my things in drawers that still hold some of hers—t-shirts she slept in, sweatpants she'd steal from me, little pieces of the life we shared.
It takes an hour to put everything away. When I'm done, I stand in the middle of the bedroom and look around.
This is my space again. My home. The place where I was most myself because I was myself with her.
Now I just need her in it.
I pull out my phone, stare at Zola's contact for a long moment. My thumb hovers over her name.
But Stellan's right—I can't rush this. Can't show up at her door begging for forgiveness when I can't yet prove that I'm actually free. She deserves better than that. Deserves me to do this right.
So I set the phone down. Make myself wait.
And try to believe that when the time comes, she'll give me the chance to explain everything.