25. Elisa
ELISA
The damp grit of potting soil packs tightly beneath my fingernails.
I plunge my hands into the dark earth spilling from a shattered terracotta pot. The warm, humid air of the greenhouse clings to my bare arms, smelling sharply of eucalyptus and blooming jasmine.
The memory of the midnight press conference loops relentlessly in my mind.
I try to focus on the roots of the ferns, but all I can see is the flashing strobes.
The chaotic roar of the financial press corps.
Donovan standing behind the clear acrylic podium, his broad shoulders squared against the blinding flashbulbs.
I watched him throw it all away. I watched him stand on live television, sever his ties to his mother, and hand his entire controlling stake over to a boy he met exactly one month ago.
A shaky breath escapes my lips.
I sit on an overturned crate in the staging bay, wearing a stained canvas apron over a plain tank top. My knees press against the spilled dirt.
Hector had walked into the back office an hour ago, carrying a tablet playing the live feed of Catherine Swanson being shoved into a federal transport vehicle. Hector set the tablet down, looked at me, and let out a heavy sigh.
He's in the loading dock, Hector had said. He's been out there since midnight. He never went home, El. He's just been leaning against his car in the dark, watching the door.
The plastic doors at the bay groan on their hinges.
The scent of city streets and faint coffee cuts through the floral perfume of the greenhouse.
I don't look up immediately. I keep my hands buried in the soil.
Muffled footsteps crunch against the gravel pathway. Not the click of dress shoes, but a dull, exhausted tread.
The footsteps stop near my staging area.
I lift my chin.
The man standing in front of me looks completely broken.
He wears the same dark charcoal dress shirt and black trousers from the broadcast, but the fabric is deeply wrinkled.
His sleeves are pushed up, his collar is unbuttoned, and his dark hair is a messy, uncombed tangle.
Deep, bruised shadows sit beneath his green eyes.
He stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders bowed forward as if he can no longer carry his own weight. The fight is entirely drained out of him.
"Donovan," I whisper.
The urge to step over the spilled earth and pull him into my arms is a heavy, painful ache in my chest. Seeing him this exhausted, this utterly broken, makes it so hard to hold onto my fury.
I know why he lied. I know he thought he was shielding me from the nightmare of his family.
But the betrayal still burns—a sharp, stubborn resentment that he chose to shoulder the burden alone instead of trusting me to stand beside him.
"I was trying to carry it all," he says, his voice thick with unshed tears, almost as if he can hear the exact conflict raging in my head. "I thought if I just handled it quietly, you wouldn't have to live looking over your shoulder. I thought I was protecting you."
I wipe my dirt-stained hands on my apron, refusing to let him see my fingers tremble.
"You lied to my face," I tell him quietly. "You stood in my kitchen and promised to protect us. You let me walk into that VIP suite completely blind to the fact that Catherine had photographs of my child. That she had known all along!"
"I acted exactly like my mother," Donovan replies without flinching.
He doesn't offer a single excuse. "I assumed I knew what was best for you.
I didn't hide it to save the event, Elisa.
I hid it because I couldn't bear the thought of you living in terror.
But by doing that, I took away your right to defend yourself.
And in that VIP suite, watching you look at me like I was exactly the man I spent five years trying not to be... it gutted me."
He covers his face with his hands, a ragged, uneven breath tearing through his chest.
"I kept you in the dark," he whispers. "I took away your right to make your own choices. I am so sorry, Elisa."
The genuine devastation in his posture breaks my heart. I look down at my dirt-stained apron.
"You threw it all away," I say, still struggling to comprehend the midnight broadcast. "You liquidated your voting shares. You transferred the trust to Derick."
"It's over," he says, dropping his hands to meet my gaze. "I resigned. Catherine will face a federal judge on Friday. She will never come near you or Derick again."
He takes a hesitant step forward.
"I am starting over," he promises softly. "An independent real estate firm. No Swanson capital. No legacy board members. Every dollar will be earned with my own work. A life built entirely on transparency."
"I spent five years terrified," I tell him, the raw honesty bleeding into the damp air. "I was so terrified that your family's money would swallow my son whole. That he would just become another pawn in Catherine's games. And yesterday, she nearly proved me right."
"She will never touch him." Donovan reaches out, his large hands gently catching my wrists. "That money is locked away, and only you control it. I am not asking you to step into the Swanson empire, Elisa. I tore it apart so I could leave it behind."
He pulls my hands to his chest, pressing my palms right over the frantic, heavy thud of his heart.
"I'm asking you to let me be part of your life," he pleads, a single tear finally slipping down his face, tracking through the dust on his cheek. "Let me be his father. Let me love you the way I should have five years ago. Please, give me the rest of my life to make up for the time I lost."
The last lingering traces of my fear finally recede. The defensive walls I built to survive the last five years crumble.
He didn't force me into his world. He gave his world up so he could exist in mine.
I step over the spilled potting soil, closing the space between us. I reach up, my dirt-stained hands framing his face. The rough grit of the earth smears against his damp cheek. He doesn't pull away. He leans his entire weight into my touch.
"No more secrets," I tell him firmly. "We face things together. You never hide the truth from me again."
"Never," he promises, pressing a kiss to the palm of my hand. "I swear it."
I lean forward and press my mouth against his.
The kiss isn't rushed or demanding; it is a long, desperate exhale after years of holding my breath.
A quiet promise that the worst is finally behind us.
I part his lips, tasting the salt of his tears and the faint trace of coffee.
He lets out a deep, relieved sigh, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist to pull my body flush against his.
The dirt from my apron stains his dark shirt, but neither of us cares.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead heavily against mine.
Donovan slides his arms behind my back and under my knees. He lifts me smoothly off the ground, cradling me securely against his chest.
He looks down into my eyes, the exhaustion in his expression replaced by quiet, absolute devotion.
"Let me take you home."