CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ISABELLA
“I still love you.”
I say it in a restaurant while Alexander is talking about dessert.
I did not plan the declaration, which is particularly irritating because I have spent the last five years planning every important decision carefully enough to avoid ever depending on him again.
Alexander is, quite literally, criticizing the crème br?lée.
“The sugar layer should be thinner. At this thickness, the ratio between—”
“I still love you.”
He stops.
The spoon remains suspended halfway between the plate and his mouth while every other thought seems to vanish from his face. For several seconds, I genuinely consider the possibility that I have broken Alexander Thorne in the middle of a restaurant.
“What?” he finally asks.
“You heard me.”
He lowers the spoon with exaggerated care, as though one abrupt movement might frighten the words away.
“I did.”
“Then don’t make me repeat them immediately.”
“I wasn’t going to. I’m trying to remember how breathing works.”
I roll my eyes because if I do not, I will probably start crying.
We are on a date.
Maybe.
The idea was mine, although it took me almost two days to admit it.
I invited Alexander to dinner without Lily, lawyers, relatives, or any emergency capable of providing a safe subject of conversation.
He asked whether he should interpret the invitation as a date, and I said maybe because apparently I still enjoy making him suffer a little.
Alexander arrived ten minutes early, parked outside the restaurant, and remained in the car until the exact time of our reservation. I watched him through the window checking his watch and visibly resisting the urge to come inside.
Over dinner, we talked about my work, the upcoming board vote, and Lily’s school performance.
Alexander disagreed with me about expanding one of our campaigns into the Asian market, and we argued for fifteen minutes without him trying to end the discussion with a phone call, a purchase, or the authority of a man accustomed to winning.
It was pleasant.
Normal.
And therefore every bit as dangerous as everything I want and still do not know whether I can keep.
Now we have reached dessert, and I have told him I still love him.
“That doesn’t fix anything,” I warn.
Alexander keeps his hands on the table, nowhere near mine.
“I know.”
“Love does not erase what happened or replace trust.”
“I know.”
“It also doesn’t mean I’m ready to remain married after the contract ends.”
“I know.”
“Stop knowing everything.”
“Sorry.”
I drag a hand over my face. The instinct to run is fighting with the need to finally say everything I have been avoiding since Alexander returned to my life.
“I love you,” I repeat, and the second time is worse because I can no longer pretend the words escaped by accident. “I hate that it survived.”
Alexander does not smile.
Thank God.
“It would have been easier if it had died,” I continue. “I could have looked at everything that happened, decided you destroyed whatever existed between us, and moved on without any of this confusion.”
“Yes.”
“I built a life without you. I raised our daughter, built my company, and learned how to solve my own problems without asking myself what Alexander Thorne would do.”
“You built an extraordinary life.”
“I know. Don’t turn that into a compliment designed to make the rest of this conversation easier.”
He lifts one hand slightly in surrender.
“Fair.”
“And I don’t need you.”
The words remain between us.
Alexander nods, and I see the pain cross his face before he can contain it.
“I know.”
“Good. Because I am not replacing one dependency with another just to prove I love you.”
“I would never ask you to.”
I grip the edge of the table, gathering enough courage for the hardest part.
“But I think I may want you.”
Alexander closes his eyes.
A tear escapes before he can stop it and moves slowly down his cheek.
“Shit.”
“Bad word,” I point out.
A shaky laugh leaves him. The reference to Lily breaks something open inside me, and I start laughing too, although my eyes are full of tears.
For several seconds, we are simply two people crying and laughing over a dessert Alexander considers technically inadequate. A couple at the next table glances in our direction.
I do not care.
“I don’t want the man you used to be,” I say once I can breathe again.
Alexander wipes his face with his napkin.
“I don’t want to be him either.”
“And I don’t want you spending the rest of your life on your knees.”
His expression changes.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to repair what you did, and you needed to. I needed to see that you understood the scale of the damage, not merely that you regretted it because you discovered Lily was yours or because you wanted me back.”
“I regret all of it.”
“I know. But at some point, redemption cannot become your entire identity. I don’t want a husband who wakes every morning wondering how he is going to pay for the worst mistake of his life.”
Alexander watches me without interrupting.
“I want a man who learned from it and chose to live differently. If every good thing you do becomes another payment on an impossible debt, we will never be equals.”
“Do you believe I can stop being what I did?”
“No. I believe you can stop being defined only by what you did. There is a difference.”
The emotion on his face is so exposed that I have to look away for a second.
“So I don’t want our relationship back,” I say.
The color leaves his face, but Alexander does not try to argue with me.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Not yet.”
He falls silent.
“Our old relationship looked perfect to me,” I explain. “I felt loved, protected, and part of something I believed was unbreakable. Only later did I realize there was a flaw underneath all of it. You loved me, but your love still needed control. It needed knowledge. It needed certainty.”
“When I couldn’t have those things, I removed you.”
“Exactly. That is why I don’t want what we had.”
My throat closes, and I have to breathe before I can continue.
“I want to start something else.”
Alexander becomes completely still.
The waiter approaches, takes one look at our table, and retreats with the instincts of a man who is probably about to receive an absurdly generous tip.
“Are you going to make me repeat everything?” I ask.
“I’m afraid of understanding you incorrectly.”
My chest tightens. The man who once turned suspicion into certainty is now afraid to conclude that he has been chosen even after hearing the words.
“I want to try a new relationship with you.”
His hand closes around the tablecloth.
“New.”
“Yes. No using the contract as proof that we are a real couple. No pretending that a legal marriage repaired the emotional one. No treating one night together as a promise that I’ll stay.”
“Yes.”
“And I need you to remain Lily’s father regardless of what happens between us.”
“That has never depended on whether you love me.”
“I know. It is one of the reasons I was able to get to this table.”
Alexander draws in a deep breath.
“May I ask what this new relationship involves?”
“You court me.”
One eyebrow rises.
“I’m going to court my wife.”
“Legally.”
“An administrative detail.”
“An administrative detail with thirty-seven pages of clauses.”
“Which makes the process more challenging.”
“And I decide whether I like it.”
“I appreciate the structure.”
“Of course you do. It sounds like a performance review.”
“Will there be objective criteria?”
“Very few. That is part of your treatment.”
“Concerning.”
I lean slightly across the table.
“No buying restaurants because I liked the food.”
“I have never bought a restaurant for that reason.”
My look makes him reconsider.
“I considered it.”
“No private jet as a first date.”
“That removes several efficient options.”
“Flowers are allowed.”
Alexander freezes.
“They are?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
I smile.
“If you don’t know after everything, you’ve already failed.”
He looks almost offended.
“Peonies. White, with a few pink ones, because you say entirely white arrangements look like funeral decorations.”
My heart tightens.
“You still remember.”
“Everything.”
The answer could have hurt once. Tonight, it produces a cautious tenderness, like touching a scar after the wound has finally closed.
Alexander looks at my hand on the table but does not reach for it.
“And kissing?”
“What about it?”
“Is it permitted during the courtship?”
“Are you asking for one now?”
“Yes.”
“At the table?”
“I can wait until we leave.”
That man, waiting.
I lean toward him.
“You don’t have to.”
Alexander does not move until I cross half the distance. Only then does he lift a hand to my face and kiss me.
There is none of the desperation from our kiss in the office or the urgency of the night we spent together. He does not try to reclaim five years in a matter of seconds. His mouth touches mine with a tenderness that asks nothing of the future, even though I can feel how much he wants one.
When we separate, I remain close.
“That was a reasonably good first date.”
“The food was below expectations.”
“Alexander.”
“The company compensated.”
“Better.”
He looks at me as though he is storing every detail of the evening.
Perhaps he is.
The waiter finally approaches with the bill. Alexander reaches for it, but I place my hand over the small tray before he can open it.
“We’re splitting it.”
“I invited you.”
“I invited you.”
“Then you should pay for all of it.”
“I want to split it.”
A few months ago, the argument would have ended with Alexander handing over his card without listening to me. Now he looks at my hand over the bill and tries to understand what I am actually asking for.
“Half each,” he agrees.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You do not have to like every decision I make.”
“That principle seems dangerous.”
“Get used to it.”
We pay, and only when we stand do I realize we still have to decide what to do with the rest of the evening.
“Would you like me to take you home?” Alexander asks.
I check the time. It is not even ten. My mother is with Lily and sent me a photograph of her asleep almost an hour ago.