Chapter 20
Sera
I find the box on my bed when I return from the shower.
For a moment, I just stare at it. The cardboard is old, busted, and familiar.
I don't need to open the flaps to know what is inside the box—my tools.
He actually did it.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers trembling as I pull the tape free. Inside: my restoration kit, each tool exactly where I'd left it. The set of brushes Mr. Bolinger gave me when I started. The wheat paste I'd mixed myself. The leather punch I'd saved three months to buy.
And underneath, wrapped in tissue paper: two books.
Jane Eyre. A collection of Mary Oliver poems.
He didn't just grab random books. He got the right ones. The first ones I'd restored.
I press the poetry book to my chest and let myself cry.
Not because I'm sad, but because for the first time since this nightmare began, someone listened to what I needed and actually followed through.
There's a knock at the door, and I quickly flick the tears away.
"Come in," I call out, sniffling slightly.
Adrian enters, and for a moment we just look at each other.
"The tools arrived," I say unnecessarily.
"I see that." His eyes move to the poetry book I'm still clutching. "Are they—did I get the right ones?"
"Yes. All of them. Thank you."
He nods. Awkward. Like he doesn't know what to do with my gratitude. This seems to be the thing between us right now. Adrian seems to oscillate between being incredibly controlling and not knowing what he wants to say to me.
"Dinner's ready," he says. "If you're still interested."
"I am." I gesture down to the silk dress I'm wearing.
It was the one that had been hung newly in my closet.
It's a deep emerald silk that's more revealing than I might have chosen for myself, but it's also lovely and accentuates my new curves in a way that makes me feel incredibly sexy.
"I got all dressed up and everything." I chuckle, trying not to feel awkward.
Adrian's eyes scan my body, and I shiver as his hunger becomes apparent. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you."
He shifts carefully, and I realize he's holding something behind his back. A small package wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.
"I have something else for you," he says. "But I wanted to give it to you at dinner.”
There's something vulnerable in the way he says it, and I feel my heart beating quickly as I wonder what it could be.
"That's okay."
He offers me his arm. "Shall we?"
I set the poetry book down carefully and slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. The gesture feels oddly formal and old-fashioned, and it’s a reminder that we’ve done all this backwards.
This is the tension that comes from a first date, when you are getting to know one another.
Adrian leads me through the mansion to the conservatory where we talked earlier. The space has been transformed.
Candles flicker on a small table set for two. Not the massive dining room table designed for power plays and family politics. This is intimate. Private.
Real flowers, anemones and white dahlias, sit in a clear vase.
"You did all this?"
"I had help." He pulls out my chair. "But yes, I planned it. Minus the flowers. I don’t know shit about flowers.”
I laugh, and it breaks the tension as we take our seats.
A staff member I don't recognize brings out the first course. Insalata caprese.
"I remembered you said you liked simple Italian food," Adrian says. "So, I asked the kitchen to keep it simple."
"This is perfect." I cut into the mozzarella, closing my eyes as the flavor of the balsamic and basil paired with the creaminess of the cheese explodes on our tongue.
"I need to apologize,” Adrian says.
I look up, surprised. “Wow, I never thought I’d hear those words coming from you.”
This time he laughs. "I should have been more attentive. We got married, and I just disappeared. That wasn’t…” He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic I’ve noticed, “It wasn’t what I wanted.”
I don't know what to say to that.
"I don't know how to do this," Adrian continues.
"How to be a husband. How to make you happy.
I only know how to protect things. Control them.
But you—" He stops. "You're not something I can just lock up and keep safe.
You're a person. And I've been treating you like a problem to solve instead of someone I should actually know. "
"Adrian—"
"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I want to try. Actually try. Not just say the words but do the work. Starting tonight."
He slides a beautifully wrapped package across the table to me. It’s wrapped in velvet fabric.
"This is for you."
My hands shake as I unwrap it.
Inside is a book. Vintage. Very well preserved, and yet, I still tremble, holding my hand above the paper, scared to touch it.
Winnie the Pooh.
Not a modern reprint. An original.
My breath catches.
"How did you—"
"You mentioned it once. After the wedding. You were half-asleep, and you said your mother used to read it to you. That Pooh always knew the right thing to say when life felt too big."
I stare at the book in my hands, tears blurring my vision.
"I thought you might want him back," Adrian says quietly. “You can read to the baby.”
I can't speak. There’s a lump in my throat as I take in what he is saying. Adrian, a man who ordered me not to work, who made it clear he wants to control my life, remembered something I said in my sleep.
And not only that, he spent a small fortune on a personal gesture that we could pass on to our child.
It means he sees me.
Not just the vessel carrying his child. Not just the problem he needs to manage.
Me.
"I don't know what to say," I whisper.
"You don't have to say anything."
"This is—" I stop. Look up at him through my tears. "This is the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens.
"Then I've been doing everything else wrong."
"Maybe." I laugh through my tears. "But this is a good start."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
"Tell me about her. Your mother."
"Why?"
"Because you’re my wife, and I want to know about you.”
So I tell him.
About my mother reading to me every night. About how she'd do all the voices, especially Eeyore's gloomy monotone that would make me giggle. About how she'd tell me that even on the hardest days, there was always honey and friends and home.
And then, because he's listening—really listening—I tell him about losing her. About being twenty years old and suddenly responsible for Gabe, and how hard that was, especially when my dad then passed. About how restoration became my sanctuary, the one place where I could fix things that were broken, and how I’m good at it.
I want him to understand my passion for my job.
"That's why you wanted your tools back," Adrian says. "It's not just a job."
"No. It's—" I stop. "It's the only thing I've ever been good at. Taking something damaged and making it whole again."
"You're good at more than that."
"Like what?"
"Surviving." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Adapting. Being strong even when you're terrified. I've watched you these past weeks. You could have broken. But you didn't."
"I feel broken,” I admit.
"You're not." He squeezes my hand. "And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you stay that way."
His phone buzzes.
Again.
Again.
I tense, waiting for him to reach for it.
He doesn't.
"You can answer that," I say softly.
"No."
"What if it's important?"
"Leo is head of security, and he makes a bunch of money to handle these types of things.” He silences the phone without looking at it. "I promised you tonight. Just us. I'm keeping that promise."
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
"Tell me about your father," I say.
The request catches him off guard. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense.
"Why?"
"Because everyone talks about your mother. About Bianca Nero, the woman who took power. But no one mentions your father. I want to know about him."
Adrian is quiet for a long moment. Then:
"He was weak. That's what Bianca always said. That his weakness got him killed."
"What do you think?"
"I think he loved us." Adrian's voice is rough. "In his way. But he was cruel, especially to our mother. And weak.”
My breath catches. "How old were you when he died.”
"Twelve."
"Adrian—"
"Gemma and I were with him when he died."
I tighten my grip on his hand.
“He was so weak that he allowed himself to be gunned down in front of his children,” he says, his voice emotionless. “Our child will never see something like that.”
The way he speaks makes my heart clench, and I don’t know what to say. This doesn’t feel like the time to push back.
So instead, I leave forward and press my lips to his. It’s a soft kiss, and Adrian doesn’t push for more.
“You can’t control everyone,” I say.
He rubs his thumb over my knuckles.
"I'd rather you hate me than lose you."
"I don't hate you," I whisper.
"You should."
"Maybe. But I don't." I stand, moving around the table to him. "I should hate you for forcing me into this marriage. For taking away my freedom. For keeping me locked up like a prisoner."
He looks up at me, jaw tight.
"But you gave me my tools back. You found the books I loved. You remembered something I said when I was half-asleep and bought me a piece of my mother." I cup his face. "You're trying. And that matters."
"Sera—"
I kiss him.
He freezes for half a second, then his arms come around me, pulling me into his lap. The kiss deepens, turns hungry.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I want to show you something," he says roughly.
"Okay."
He stands, lifting me with him, then sets me on my feet and takes my hand.
He leads me through the mansion to a wing I haven't explored yet. Unlocks a set of double doors and pushes them open.
"I know you said you wanted to work from home," he says. "So I thought—"
I step inside and stop breathing.