17. Elena
Elena
Ispend eleven minutes staring at a three-word text before I send it.
Dominic answers in nine seconds.
Elena: Are you free tonight?
Dominic: Yes.
He doesn’t ask about my cycle, request dates, or confirm that I checked the app. He hasn’t needed a schedule to justify seeing me in months.
The doctor’s increased-frequency plan last month changed how often we try to conceive. It didn’t create the agreement that matters tonight: if either of us wants something, we say so. I ask because I miss him, and I don’t offer dinner, work, or sex as an excuse.
A little before seven, my doorbell rings.
Dominic stands in the hall with his suit jacket over one arm and a paper bag in his other hand.
“You brought dinner.”
“You invited me over on a Tuesday with no notice. I assumed this wasn’t a formal event.”
“It could be.”
His gaze travels over my bare feet, leggings, and oversized Rowe Holdings sweatshirt. A slow, appreciative heat moves through me. “Then I’m severely underdressed.”
I step aside before my smile becomes too obvious. “You’re wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit.”
“Which apparently isn’t enough to compete with that sweatshirt.”
“This is executive leisurewear.”
“That is company property you stole from a charity event.”
“I’m an executive. I’m wearing it during leisure. My description stands.”
His laugh eases the tension in my chest.
I close the door behind him.
Dominic carries the food into my kitchen. He knows which cabinet holds the plates now. He knows where I keep the silverware and that the cloth napkins are for guests while the paper ones beside the refrigerator are what I actually use.
Six months ago, he had never been inside my condo.
Now he opens my refrigerator, frowns at the nearly empty shelf, and takes out two bottles of water without asking.
“You need groceries.”
“I have groceries.”
“You have mustard, half a lemon, and what I sincerely hope is still edible yogurt.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You work for a very demanding man.”
“He’s relentless.”
“I’ve heard he’s handsome.”
“Mostly from him, I assume.”
His mouth curves. “You’re in a good mood.”
He always sees me, and the awareness is both a comfort and a risk.
“I’m hungry.”
“That must be it.”
The look he gives me says he knows better, and I think he does.
We eat at the kitchen island while he tells me Sophie has accused him of cheating during the game at lunch last weekend.
“You did cheat,” I remind him.
“I clarified the rules.”
“After you were losing.”
“That’s when rules require the most scrutiny.”
“She’s five, Dominic,” I say through a laugh, my chest tight with an unnamed warmth at the image of him with our child.
“She’s ruthless. Cliff should be proud.”
I laugh hard enough that I have to put down my fork.
Dominic watches me with a soft curve to his mouth, and for a moment, the contract in my locked drawer and the fertility calendar on my phone disappear.
Cliff’s best friend is also a man who knows how to make me laugh and looks pleased every time he succeeds.
Sitting here with him feels natural enough to make me nervous.
After dinner, he clears the containers while I wipe down the counter. We move around each other without discussion, passing lids and plates between us as if we have done this for years instead of weeks.
His hand settles briefly at my waist when he reaches past me. He does not turn the touch into anything else.
The restrained touch feels more intimate than the times he has bent me over this counter.
We take our water into the living room. Dominic sits at one end of the couch, and I fold my legs beneath me at the other.
“What are we watching?” he asks.
“You came to my condo. You surrendered your voting rights when you crossed the threshold.”
“I should’ve had counsel review the invitation.”
“It was three words.”
“Your contracts have started with less.”
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed and puts it behind his head as if I meant to improve his comfort.
Twenty minutes into the show, my feet end up beneath his thigh. His hand rests loosely around my ankle, his thumb moving over the same spot every so often without conscious thought.
He came because I asked him to. I asked because I wanted him here.
There is no date, window, or excuse between us. We are here because we chose an ordinary Tuesday together, and the ease of it scares me more than sex ever has. It feels like ours. I try to concentrate on the television, but that word won’t leave me alone.
Dominic’s thumb moves over my ankle once more before going still. He has not watched the screen for several minutes. I can feel his attention on me, patient and heavy.
“Elena.”
“What?”
He reaches for the remote and mutes the television.
“That was getting interesting.”
“You have no idea what’s happening.”
“Neither do you.”
“I haven’t watched a second of it.”
“At least you’re honest.”
His smile fades. He keeps his hand around my ankle, warm and loose enough that I could pull away without resistance.
I don’t.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You’re going to regardless.”
“No. I’m not.”
The quiet certainty in his voice makes me look at him. The sound from the television seems to flatten, becoming meaningless background noise.
Dominic waits. He never assumes that being invited into my body grants him access to everything else.
“Ask.”
“If we trust each other enough to raise a child together, why do you insist the rest of this can’t be more?”
I forget to breathe.
I pull my feet out from beneath his leg and sit upright. Dominic releases me immediately.
“Those are two entirely different things.” The words are out before I can stop them, a wall of logic I throw up instinctively. A child is a plan. A relationship is a vulnerability.
“Are they?”
“A child has defined needs. Responsibilities. Legal protections. We agreed on how decisions will be made and what happens if we disagree.”
“We also agreed we wouldn’t have sex.”
“That was different.”
“Then we agreed sex would happen only during confirmed ovulation windows.”
My voice goes tight. “I remember the contract, Dominic.”
“So do I. I also remember every time we decided it no longer reflected what we wanted.”
His voice remains calm. There is no accusation to push against.
“A relationship isn’t a clause we can amend.”
“No. It’s a choice.”
“It’s a choice someone can stop making whenever they want.” A ghost of a text message, six years old, flashes in my mind.
His expression changes as he understands what I’m actually saying.
I hate that he sees it. I also feel an awful rush of relief because I am tired of carrying this alone.
“You told me someone hurt you,” he says. “You never told me how.”
I look down at my hands, tracing a seam in my leggings. The story sits in my throat like shards of glass. “I met him when I was nineteen. He was a guest lecturer, and afterward, he offered to mentor me.”
The word sounds ugly now. At nineteen, it sounded like opportunity.
“He told me I was gifted. He made introductions and recommended me for positions. He taught me how to walk into rooms where everyone was older and more experienced and make them listen.”
“And you were together?”
“Eventually. By then, he was connected to nearly every part of my professional life. I thought that meant he believed in me.”
“How long?”
“Six years.”
Dominic’s jaw tightens, but he does not interrupt.
“I loved him. I thought we were building a life together. We talked about marriage and children. He made all of it sound inevitable.” My throat burns. “Then one morning, he ended the relationship by text.”
Dominic’s jaw locks.
“He said it was over and that contacting him would only make things more difficult. Six years reduced to a message I could read in under a minute.”
“Elena.”
I went to see him. “I needed him to look at me and explain how someone goes from planning a future with you to refusing to take your call.”
“What did he do?” The question is low, freighted with a cold anger that is entirely on my behalf. It gives me the strength to finish.
“He reminded me how much of my career had his name attached to it.”
The anger on Dominic’s face is immediate and tightly controlled.
“He said if I exposed the relationship, he would tell people I used sex to get ahead. That every recommendation, every introduction, every opportunity had been something I earned in his bed instead of through my work. He knew the senior partners, the recruiters, the clients.” I swallow against the old humiliation.
“He told me he could make certain no respectable firm trusted me again.”
Dominic leans forward, his forearms braced on his thighs. “And you believed him.”
“I was twenty-five, heartbroken, and looking at a résumé he had helped shape. Of course I believed him.”
“I’m sorry.”
The simplicity of it nearly breaks through my defenses.
“He taught me that you can’t show someone what really matters to you, because they’ll use it against you when they leave.”
“I’m your boss.”
My gaze snaps to his.
“I know why that matters—why it matters that I’m older, that I’m Cliff’s best friend, and that I have more power inside the company. You should consider every one of those things.”
“Dominic—”
“I won’t tell you to trust me because I’m different. He probably told you he was different too.”
“Your career belongs to you. Your position belongs to you. Every protection in our agreement remains in place whether you choose me or reject me.”
I wrap my arms around myself, a useless shield. “You can’t promise this won’t end.”
“No.” His eyes hold mine. “I can promise I won’t punish you if it does. I won’t use what you give me to make you smaller. And I won’t demand that you stop being afraid before I prove you’re safe with me.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
He shifts closer, leaving enough space between us that closing it would have to be my decision.
“I’m asking whether you’re willing to be afraid and choose me anyway.”
The answer is yes.