CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
ISABELLA
Alexander takes his promise to court me extremely seriously, even though we are already reconciled, living together, and legally married.
I point out that the order of events is completely wrong. He tells me we are five years behind schedule in so many parts of our story that trying to follow a conventional sequence now would simply be another expression of his obsession with control.
Annoyingly, I have no argument against that.
On Thursday, he walks into the kitchen while I am organizing my diary for the following week.
“Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
I look up from my laptop.
“I have work.”
“Eight thirty.”
“Lily needs dinner and bedtime.”
“Your mother has already agreed to stay with her.”
I close the computer slowly.
“You spoke to my mother before asking me?”
“I checked the availability of a responsible adult for logistical purposes. I did not organize a conspiracy.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“I hate surprises.”
Alexander tilts his head.
“Liar.”
He is right, which makes it worse.
At eight thirty, a car is waiting outside the house. There is no private jet, helicopter, or restaurant purchased for the occasion, and I consider that progress.
I recognize the destination when we stop.
It is the first restaurant where we had dinner, a few weeks after I spilled coffee over Alexander’s suit. The place still exists, although the fa?ade has changed and the dining room is slightly larger.
“Did you try to book the same table?” I ask.
His expression stays neutral for a fraction too long.
“The refurbishment removed that section of the room.”
“And you survived?”
“It was a growth experience.”
There is a small arrangement of peonies on our new table.
I touch one of the flowers.
“You remembered.”
“You tested me that night.”
“Maybe.”
“Did I pass?”
“Partially.”
We have dinner without discussing Richard, the company, the trust, or the long process of repairing what happened between us. For the first time in what feels like forever, Alexander does not seem like a man giving an account of himself, and I do not feel responsible for evaluating his progress.
We talk about books I read during the years we were apart, places we would like to travel, and a project my consultancy is preparing to pitch for.
Alexander offers opinions, disagrees with one of my strategies and, when he catches my expression, reminds me that I asked for partnership rather than submission.
“Disagreeing does not require you to imply my entire plan is wrong.”
“I believe the phrase I used was ‘unnecessary risk.’”
“With that voice.”
“I only have one voice.”
“You have at least seven. That was the CEO voice you use when judging people you consider less intelligent.”
“I can try again.”
He reformulates his argument, this time as a man who understands my work rather than an executive determined to correct it. I end up agreeing with part of his analysis.
We also discuss taking Lily to a museum in Canada with an impressive marine fossil collection. Alexander suggests using the jet, and I agree because occasionally being married to a billionaire should provide practical benefits.
The following week, we go to the cinema. Alexander hates the experience from the moment a man sits behind us with an exceptionally noisy packet of snacks.
“People chew far too loudly,” he whispers.
“Are you forty-two or eighty?”
“Forty-two.”
“Worse. You still have decades left to complain.”
For our third date, we walk through a park and eat at a small restaurant without a reservation. On the fourth, we cook at home while Lily is with my mother.
Alexander still overplans, but he is learning to leave empty spaces in the schedule. Sometimes the plan changes, and instead of trying to force reality back into place, he changes with it.
Then, one ordinary afternoon, he hands me a single flower cut from the garden at the old house.
“Did you steal this?” I ask.
“Technically, the property still belongs to me.”
“You don’t live there anymore.”
“Absence does not alter the Land Registry.”
“Capitalism.”
“You married me knowing exactly what I was.”
“For the second time.”
The words change the air between us.
Alexander looks down at the flower.
“The first ceremony never happened.”
He is right. The wedding we planned for months ended before we reached the altar. The civil ceremony that eventually made us husband and wife began as a legal instrument, and despite everything it became afterward, neither of us entered it with complete freedom.
“Maybe we should do it again,” I say.
Alexander goes completely still.
“What?”
“Get married.”
“We are married.”
“I know.”
His eyes change as he understands.
“You want to renew our vows?”
“Do not ask me now.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
A lie.
“You absolutely were.”
“I may have considered it.”
I point the flower at him.
“I want a proper proposal.”
“Define proper.”
“No stadium, no helicopter, and no diamond roughly the size of a human organ.”
“There is a considerable range between understated and inappropriate that we may need to establish.”
“Alexander.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want Lily there, but I don’t want it to be about repairing what happened. No getting down on one knee to tell me you intend to spend the rest of your life paying off a debt.”
His expression becomes serious.
“I understand.”
“I want vows about the future because I am not choosing your regret.”
I touch his face.
“I am choosing you.”
His eyes fill with tears.
“I haven’t even proposed yet.”
“I’m giving you the brief.”
“You would be a terrible client.”
“I’m an excellent client. I simply know what I want.”
Over the next few days, Alexander acquires the suspicious behavior of a man who is planning something and believes no one has noticed.
Lily notices too, although she has not yet grasped the concept of confidentiality.
“Dad asked what kind of ring I like best,” she tells me over breakfast.
“You don’t own any rings.”
“I told him I like unicorns.”
I close my eyes.
“Excellent.”
“He looked sad.”
“Even better.”
On Friday, I receive a message.
Dinner. Seven o’clock. Kitchen.
The simplicity is ridiculous.
I like it.
When I go downstairs, Alexander is standing at the stove surrounded by pans while an alarming amount of smoke rises from the largest one. Lily is sitting at the table in dinosaur pajamas, observing the disaster with scientific interest.
“Oh my God.”
Alexander attempts to put the lid on the pan.
“The situation was under control.”
“The pasta burned,” Lily informs me.
“Traitor.”
I switch off the hob and open a window.
“What exactly are you trying to do?”
He studies the pan.
“A proper proposal.”
I begin to laugh.
“This is part of the proposal?”
“There was supposed to be pasta. The recipe looked straightforward.”
“Now we have charcoal.”
“An operational detail.”
Alexander looks at Lily. She climbs down from the chair, retrieves a small box hidden beneath a cushion, and hands it to him with great solemnity.
Every trace of humor leaves me.
My heart begins to race.
“Do you still want it?” Alexander asks.
“What?”
“The proposal. Given the dinner, I would understand if you preferred to postpone.”
“That depends on how essential the pasta was.”
He rolls his eyes, draws a deep breath, and kneels on the kitchen floor.
There are no photographers, no press, no board, no Thorne relatives, and no trace of an empire. There is only Alexander, our daughter in dinosaur pajamas, and a pan we may have to throw away.
The scene is so imperfect that it becomes exactly right.
Lily moves closer to him.
“Now say what you practiced.”
Alexander looks at her.
“You promised not to mention the rehearsal.”
“I didn’t tell her the speech.”
“Still.”
I cover my mouth, trying not to laugh again.
“Maybe you should start before your assistant ruins everything.”
“I’m not the assistant,” Lily protests. “I’m in charge of the ring.”
Alexander turns his attention back to me. There is fear in his eyes even though he already knows what my answer will be. The difference is that the fear does not become a demand for certainty.
It is simply allowed to exist.
He opens the box.
I recognize the stone immediately, old, delicate, and understated, now set in a new band.
“That belonged to your grandmother.”
“It was part of a necklace. You once told me jewelry with a history was better than jewelry chosen only for its price.”
“I still think that.”
“Then I got something right.”
Lily pokes him in the shoulder.
“Speech.”
Alexander breathes.
“I had five versions, but I’m beginning to suspect none of them will survive this kitchen.”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’ll try without them.”
He holds the box, but he does not reach for my hand as though my answer already belongs to him.
He waits.