Chapter 1 #2
His ambition was part of why I fell in love with him. That ferocious, almost unreasonable belief that he could build a future out of nothing but nerve, hunger, and refusal. That, and the way he made room for me inside a life he was still fighting to earn.
My mind caught up a second later. I shot out of my chair. Xavier rose with me, one hand bracing my waist to keep me from knocking my hip into the table.
“You’re serious?” I narrowed my eyes. “This isn’t a trick to make me stop calculating how many toilets we’d need to scrub?”
He drew me closer until there was no space left between us, his warmth and the familiar woodsy scent of his skin making it hard to think. “Signed this afternoon.”
Pride surged through me with a visceral force that stole the breath from my lungs. I threw my arms around his neck, squealing right there in the middle of that too-expensive restaurant, and for once, I didn’t care who looked.
“You did it,” I breathed, laughing so hard it almost broke into a sob.
Xavier's arms came around me, firm and immediate, his mouth pressed to my hair. “I did it, amor.”
When we finally pulled apart, half laughing, half crying, the ma?tre d’ was standing beside our table with the careful expression of a man deciding whether to offer champagne or call security.
"Is everything all right?" he asked.
I nodded too quickly. "Yes. Perfect. Sorry."
Xavier's grin lingered as he guided me back into my chair, his hand warm at the small of my back. I tried to compose myself, failed almost immediately, and hid my smile behind the menu.
Giddy and fighting a laugh, I pointed at the first dish that caught my eye.
Poulet basquaise.
The number beside it sobered me immediately.
Xavier studied the menu description, then lifted his gaze to the server assigned to us.
“No shellfish,” he said, calm as a man discussing market conditions instead of my inconvenient mortality.
“No shellfish stock, no shared pans, no shared oil, no garnish prepared on the same board. Nothing that has touched shellfish comes near her plate.”
Heat flamed across my cheeks. I rarely blushed. My body preferred violence, sarcasm, and the occasional ill-advised sprint toward danger, but apparently Xavier Navarro calmly keeping death off my plate was where my composure chose to expire.
We were only four months into our relationship, and he never once treated the allergy I’d mentioned in passing like a joke, a burden, or some delicate flaw I should apologize for having. He carried an EpiPen everywhere .
Even to the National Gallery on our first date, where the most dangerous thing I planned to consume was bottled water and other people’s questionable opinions about art.
I’d watched him secure one into his jacket on the ride to the restaurant, the gesture so casual it nearly undid me.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and crossed my legs, suddenly feeling so absurdly ladylike that I half expected someone to hand me a fan and a scandalous secret.
Thank God I had decided to make an occasion of myself that night.
Xavier worried, at first, that I was dressing for him. Conforming to some fantasy I thought he wanted. The first time he said it, careful and almost guilty, I lifted an eyebrow and asked if he truly believed I was the sort of woman who could be coerced into becoming a man’s preference.
That shut him up.
The truth was simpler. I liked trying new things with him. I liked discovering that my body could look powerful in a dress too. That softness didn’t make me smaller, and femininity wasn’t surrender unless I made it one .
My mouth watered when the food arrived. I tried to eat it with appropriate financial resentment. Truly, I did. But then I took the first bite—peppers, tomatoes, wine, and braised chicken so succulent it made my entire argument with the price collapse—and I made the mistake of closing my eyes.
“That good?”
“No,” I lied, shoving another mouthful past my better judgment. “I'm furious.”
Xavier chuckled, took one bite of his own, and by the time dessert arrived, he had decided Maison Verre was no longer just a restaurant. It was a tradition waiting to happen.
Every year after we married, we went back to London for it. Maison Verre, our table, the same dish, the same ridiculous argument over the price even after the number no longer mattered.
This year was supposed to be restorative.
After London, we were flying to Seychelles for our fourth wedding anniversary: a private villa perched above the water, an infinity pool spilling toward the Indian Ocean, no phones, no meetings, no interruptions.
Just us, the sea, and time to remember how to breathe around each other again.
He had been so excited about it once, planning every detail and marking the days off our countdown calendar with me.
Last month, he postponed everything indefinitely .
A crisis with the acquisition, he said, in that peremptory, businesslike tone that brooked no argument. It was the first time he had ever upended plans we made together, so I let it go. If he was willing to postpone something that mattered to us, then it had to be serious.
Since words kept failing us, I needed effort to count for something. A surprise dinner seemed like a reasonable place to start. Unfortunately, poulet basquaise appears to require more emotional fortitude than I possess.
I make a blind turn toward what I hope is the sink.
“Left, ma petite. One more step and you are washing your hands in the fruit bowl.”
I correct course with as much grace as my streaming eyes allow, then wash my hands thoroughly before splashing cold water over my face .
“Go sit,” Collette adds from behind me. “I will handle the rest.”
When my vision clears a little, I accept the towel she shoves into my hand and dab at my eyes. “Thanks, Lettie. You’re the best.”
She scoffs at the nickname, the one I use purely because it annoys her, but when I peck her cheek, the slight tip of her mouth betrays her. She acts all steel and vinegar, like my Yiayia, but beneath it, she is soft as meringue.
Collette has been with us since Xavier and I moved into this house four years ago.
She isn’t family, not technically, but on the days my husband is too far away to reach and my own mind turns inhospitable, she is the one who finds me.
A cup of tea placed beside my hand. A blanket dragged over my knees.
A sharp French rebuke delivered with the tenderness of a woman who would rather die than admit she is worried.
I am grateful for her in a way I try not to examine too closely, because gratitude has a habit of exposing the empty spaces around it.
I’ve never been good at making friends. My bluntness ruins first impressions, and my inability to flatter anyone through obvious bullshit usually finishes the job.
College gave me classmates. Boxing gave me sparring partners and rivals.
For a while, some of them lasted. Then life happened.
Careers happened. Countries happened. Slowly, the messages thinned into birthday reactions and apologies that began with I’ve been meaning to call.
After my injury, I became someone I barely recognized. I used to know what to do with pain. Now I cry too easily, flinch too often, and blame myself for every weakness my body refuses to hide.
There are versions of me my family wouldn’t know what to do with, and this is one of them. I left Crete at sixteen and have avoided going back ever since. Distance is easier than letting them see what grief and forced inertia turned me into.
Without Collette, I don’t know what I’d do.
I give her my most tooth-aching smile and find my way upstairs. Outside, the sky is nearly dark. My husband will be home any minute now, which means I have very little time to prepare.
A flare of excitement moves through me, brighter than anything I have felt all afternoon .
Tonight can still be salvaged.
Dinner. Candles. Wine. Maybe sex, if I can remember how to be seductive. God knows it has been too long since Xavier and I touched each other without the weight of everything else in the room.
The staff has spent hours vanishing in and out with flowers, crystal, and linen, transforming the dining room around a table for two. It will be perfect.
I take the stairs two at a time and miss a step.
My hand shoots to the banister, fingers closing around polished wood as the world tilts. I give my head a sharp shake, willing the dizziness back into its cage. It has been happening too often these days, the light-headedness, the nausea, the appetite reduced to almost nothing.
An empty stomach gives me the explanation I need. I haven’t eaten all day, too consumed by preparations and the foolish, breathless excitement of sharing a meal with my husband for the first time in months.
The staircase slowly rights itself, and I resume my ascent with a giddiness I should be too grown to feel.
My attention snares on the wedding ring glittering beneath the soft cove lights, bright as a star some old god forgot to reclaim.
Yiayia used to say light found at the right moment was never accidental. It arrived as warning, blessing, or omen.
The difference was what you were willing to see.
Tonight, I choose blessing.
Everything is going to be fine.
It has to be. Light will find its way back into our days. Into us.
Humming under my breath, I step into our bedroom with a grin I do not bother suppressing.