CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ISABELLA
There are no flowers, photographers, music, or guests, and every one of those absences was my condition. There is no white dress either, no cake, dinner, toast, or any trace of the celebration that should have happened five years ago.
There is only a bright room at Chelsea Register Office, reserved through the special license the lawyers managed to obtain, two professional witnesses, and our legal representatives.
Alexander Thorne stands less than six feet away from me dressed entirely in black, as though he has arrived for a ceremony that is half wedding and half funeral.
Even so, my hands are cold.
I look down at them discreetly and confirm that they are not shaking, which I decide to count as a small victory.
“Miss Costa?” the registrar says.
I lift my head. She holds a folder against her chest and smiles with the gentle efficiency of someone who performs the same procedure several times a week.
“Yes?”
“We’re ready to begin, if you are both happy to proceed.”
I do not look at Alexander.
“We can begin.”
I chose a navy dress that was already in my wardrobe, simple enough that no one could mistake it for bridal wear. Alexander is in a black suit and white shirt, though he has left off the tie. He looks exactly as the man I should never be marrying ought to look.
The registrar begins reading the required statements about consent, commitment, and legal responsibility. The words pass through me without finding anywhere to settle because another ceremony still exists somewhere in my memory.
Five years ago, I rehearsed my vows for weeks.
I wrote four versions and hid every one from Alexander, convinced he would try to find them before the wedding.
In the final version, I said that some people entered our lives by accident while others arrived as destiny, and that Alexander had taught me how to recognize the difference.
Now I am standing in front of him because of a thirty-seven-page contract.
The irony might be funny if it did not hurt so much.
“Mr. Alexander Edmund Thorne,” the registrar says.
My stomach tightens at the sound of Edmund’s name. Alexander reacts too, although the only visible sign is the brief closing of his right hand.
The formal question is asked, and he answers without hesitation.
“I do.”
The registrar turns to me. I hear my full name followed by the same words she has just addressed to Alexander.
My answer catches for only a second.
She does not notice, but Alexander does. Of course he does. He knows every pause I make when I am about to retreat or say something I might regret.
Once, he would have reached for my hand, said my name, or used a look to remind me that he was there. Today he does nothing. He does not try to persuade me, smile at me, or turn my silence into a decision he can make on my behalf.
He simply waits.
He lets me choose.
“I do,” I say.
We sign the register, Alexander first and then me, followed by the witnesses. A wedding can consume months of preparation and take less than ten minutes to become legally real. When the registrar pronounces us married, something strange passes over Alexander’s face.
I recognize the emotion before he can hide it.
Joy.
It disappears almost immediately, smothered by the reminder that this is not a reconciliation. Still, I saw it, and my heart reacts in a way I consider deeply disloyal.
Lily is at school. That was another choice of mine.
I did not want her watching a ceremony without affection and assuming this was what a normal wedding looked like.
I explained that Alexander and I were formalizing an adult solution to adult problems and that, for a while, all three of us would live in the same house.
She asked whether there would be cake.
I promised there would, and I suspect that was the only part that truly mattered to her.
“Congratulations,” the registrar says.
The lawyers shake our hands. Mine gives me a restrained hug, while Alexander’s representative looks as though he has just witnessed the signing of an exceptionally tense merger.
Someone opens the door before we can leave.
The first camera flash freezes me. The second comes with voices and the sound of several people trying to force their way into the narrow corridor.
“Mr. Thorne!”
“Isabella, when did you decide to reconcile?”
“Is it true you have a daughter?”
“Why did you keep the wedding secret?”
My body locks, but Alexander reacts immediately. He does not touch me or try to steer me anywhere; he simply steps forward and puts himself between me and the door.
It is remarkable how effectively one man can block almost an entire corridor with nothing but his body and the right expression.
The head of security appears behind the photographers.
“How did they get in?” Alexander asks.
“We’re checking.”
“Remove them.”
His voice does not rise because it never needs to.
Two photographers are pushed backward, but one manages to keep his camera raised.
“One kiss to confirm the reconciliation, Mr. Thorne?”
My heart accelerates.
The old Alexander would have solved the problem in the most efficient way available. He might have put a hand around my waist, kissed me for the photograph, and discussed the boundary afterward in private.
The man standing in front of me only turns his head and looks for my eyes.
He does not ask aloud, but I understand.
I shake my head.
No.
Alexander faces the photographer again.
“There will be no kiss.”
“So you aren’t actually together?”
“An official statement will be issued by our representatives. My daughter will not be photographed, and my wife will not be harassed. If anyone has difficulty understanding either condition, my solicitors will be happy to explain it.”
My wife.
The words touch a part of me that should have died five years ago.
“So you’ve reconciled?” the photographer insists.
Alexander does not rise to the provocation.
“Read the statement.”
Security removes them and closes the door. Only then does Alexander turn fully toward me.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“They should never have got inside.”
“That was apparent.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’ll find out who facilitated access and make sure—”
“Alexander.”
He stops.
“Don’t turn this into a public execution.”
I see the effort it takes him to contain his first instinct.
“All right.”
“It happened. They’re gone, and we’re fine.”
“You were photographed against your will.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
The words escape before I can stop them. His expression changes, struck by the meaning neither of us needs explained.
I do not take them back.
We leave through a side entrance where a car is waiting. The driver opens the rear door, and I get in. Alexander remains on the pavement.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“The contract says I am not to assume shared transportation.”
I nearly roll my eyes.
“We’re going to the same place.”
“Even so, I didn’t want to presume.”
I move over on the seat.
“Get in.”
He settles beside me, leaving enough space between us for another person. London passes beyond the windows while the lawyers distribute the statement to the press and photographs of us are probably already circulating online.
“How did they find out?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Could it have been Richard?”
Alexander looks out at the street.
“Possibly.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not. A leak that obvious is often either a distraction or a way of measuring how we react.”
The observation is so characteristically him that I feel an irritating stab of nostalgia.
“You think something else is happening.”
“Something else usually is.”
I fall silent. Alexander watches me for a moment.
“I’m not trying to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened.”
“Isabella—”
“I’m alert. That’s different.”
He accepts the distinction.
When the car stops, we are not outside my house or his old mansion. Instead, we have pulled up in front of a pale townhouse on a tree-lined street less than fifteen minutes from Lily’s school.
I look at Alexander.
“Where are we?”
“The temporary residence specified in the agreement.”
My body stiffens.
“I said I didn’t want you buying me a house.”
“I didn’t. It’s leased for twelve months, with an early termination option.”
I look at the building again.
“Who chose it?”
“Your lawyer approved the criteria, and Helena was given five options. She viewed three and recommended this one as the best fit for preserving your routine.”
“My assistant knew?”
“Since Tuesday. I asked her not to show you anything until the final approval because every address needed a security assessment.”
Betrayal. I consider firing her for approximately two seconds.
“Why aren’t we staying at your house?”
Alexander looks toward the building.
“Because that house is mine in every sense. My staff, my routines, my memories, my rules. Taking you and Lily there would mean asking both of you to enter my life and adapt to it. That isn’t what we’re trying to do.”
The answer removes some of my irritation.
“And this place?”
“Neutral ground. Neither of us was here first, and you can leave whenever you want.”
I get out of the car before he can see the effect the words have on me. Alexander follows, and the front door opens before we reach the steps.
Lily shoots out like a rocket.
“YOU GOT MARRIED?”
My mother appears behind her.
“Lily, you do not need to announce it to the entire street!”
My daughter runs to me first, wraps her arms around my waist, then stops in front of Alexander.
“You got married?”
He crouches.
“Legally.”
Lily wrinkles her nose.
“Does that mean yes?”
“Yes.”
She examines our hands.
“Where are the rings?”
Alexander looks at me before answering.
“We don’t have any.”
Lily looks appalled.
“Then how do people know?”
“There are documents.”
She considers this explanation.
“Boring.”
I almost laugh.
My mother approaches carrying a box.
“I brought cake before she declared war over the lack of a party.”
Lily accepts the box and, without warning, takes Alexander’s hand.
He freezes.
I watch her small hand disappear into his and see the emotion cross his face before he can contain it.
“Come see my room.”
Alexander looks at me. This time the request for permission is explicit.
I nod.
He follows Lily inside, adjusting his stride to match hers. My mother stops beside me and watches the two of them disappear down the corridor.
“He’s trying,” she says.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.”
I look at her.
“I know that too.”
“I just wanted to be certain.”
Inside the house, Lily talks without pausing for breath while Alexander answers with a patience I did not know he possessed.
My mother touches my arm.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you trying to do?”
I look toward the doorway through which my daughter disappeared holding her father’s hand.
“I don’t know yet.”
Perhaps that uncertainty is the most frightening thing about the entire day.
That night, I discover that my bedroom is on the second floor and Alexander’s is on the third.
He did not question the distance or try to install himself beside me.
In the bathroom, I find the products I normally use and feel an immediate flare of irritation until I find a message from Helena explaining that she supplied the list.
I am taking off my earrings when someone knocks.
“Yes?”
Alexander opens the door only after hearing my answer and remains in the corridor.
“We identified the photographers. One works for the Daily Register. The other is freelance.”
“Who paid them?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then why did you come?”
He hesitates, and for the first time that evening he looks like nothing more than a man standing outside the bedroom of a woman who may not want to see him.
“I wanted to say good night.”
My heart supplies a response I find entirely unacceptable.
“Good night, Alexander.”
He nods.
“Good night, Isabella.”
The door closes without argument.
I stare at the wood for several seconds. Five years ago, Alexander could turn a closed door into punishment, control, or a threat of abandonment.
Tonight, for the first time, he seems to understand that a closed door can also simply be a boundary.
And that respecting it is another way of staying.