Chapter 23 #2
"I was terrified." Charity glances at me, and I give her a small nod. Keep going. You've got this. "Terrified that if I stepped out of line, you’d take your affection away. So I played the part you needed. Until I couldn't anymore."
Another silence. This one feels different—less hostile, more raw.
Mr. Pembroke clears his throat. "The sculpture is… remarkable." He's struggling, trying to find solid ground. "We had no idea you were capable of such work."
"You never asked what I was capable of." Charity's words are simple, devastating. "You told me what to be and expected me to comply."
"And you've been living… where, exactly?" Mrs. Pembroke's tone shifts, practical concerns taking over. "We assumed you'd run through your savings months ago, living with—" She cuts herself off, but we all know what she was going to say.
I almost laugh. Almost.
"We have an apartment in Manhattan," Charity says. "Small, but it's ours. We're doing fine, actually."
"More than fine," I add, because I can't help myself. "I've got a decent amount in my bank account if we need it, but we don't. Turns out ancient gladiator reflexes make for good entertainment. Who knew?"
Mr. Pembroke's eyebrows rise. "You're… supporting yourselves?"
"Shocking, right?" Charity's smile is genuine now, amused. "I sold three pieces this month. Major collectors. And Draco performs at venues across the city—he's booked solid through spring."
"We're happy," I say, and I let them hear the truth in it. "Actually happy. Not performing happiness. Living it."
Mrs. Pembroke looks at her daughter—really looks at her—and something shifts in her expression. Maybe it's the confidence in Charity's stance. Maybe it's the joy that radiates from her despite the difficult conversation. Maybe it's just that she's finally seeing Charity instead of Grace's ghost.
"You look well," she says softly. "Different than I expected."
"I look like myself," Charity corrects gently. "Maybe for the first time."
Her father is studying the sculpture, and I watch him process it—the technical skill, the artistic vision, the raw talent they never knew their daughter possessed. When he turns back, his expression has changed too.
"We made mistakes," he says. It's not an apology, not quite. But it's acknowledgment, and that's something. "We were… we didn't know how to lose one daughter and raise another."
"You didn't have to choose," Charity says. "You could have just loved me as I was."
"We did love you." Mrs. Pembroke's voice breaks slightly. "We do love you. We just… we failed to show it properly."
It's not enough. Not yet. But it's a start.
Charity reaches for my hand, and I give it to her immediately.
Our fingers intertwine, and I feel her draw strength from the contact.
"I need you to understand something," she says to her parents.
"Draco didn't steal me away or corrupt me or any of the things your friends probably said.
He helped me find myself. He saw who I really was even though I'd forgotten. "
"The street performer," her father says, and there's less disdain in his voice than before.
"The gladiator," I correct. "The survivor. The man who understands that freedom matters more than gold." I squeeze Charity's hand. "And the man who loves your daughter exactly as she is."
Mrs. Pembroke dabs at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "We've been… we've handled this poorly. All of it."
"Yes," Charity agrees. "You have."
"Can we—" Her mother hesitates, looking up at her husband who looks at her for an intense moment before giving her a slight nod of his head. Looking back at her daughter, eyes glassy with unshed tears, voice quivering. "Could we perhaps start over? Not forget, but… begin again?"
I feel Charity consider it. Feel her weigh the past against the possibility of the future. This is the moment—she could walk away, justified in her anger. Or she could extend grace she doesn't owe.
"Small steps," Charity finally says. "No grand gestures. No pretending the past didn't happen. But… maybe coffee sometime. Without the three-fork test."
Her father has the decency to look ashamed. "That was poorly done."
"It was meant to humiliate him." Charity's voice firms. "To prove he wasn't good enough. But he is good enough, and you'll need to accept that if we're going to have any relationship at all."
"I can see that he makes you happy," Mrs. Pembroke says quietly. "I can see that you… glow when you look at him."
"Because I love him." Charity says it simply, matter-of-factly. "And he loves me. That's non-negotiable."
"Understood." Her father extends his hand to me. I stare at it for a moment—the same hand that served me that humiliating dinner, that tried to prove I wasn't worthy.
Then I shake it. Firm, brief.
"I'll take care of her," I say.
"She doesn't need taking care of," he replies, and there's the faintest hint of pride in his voice. "She's proven that quite clearly."
Charity laughs, surprised and genuine. "Was that almost a compliment?"
"Your sculpture is extraordinary," he says instead of answering directly. "Your mother and I would like to purchase the smaller piece in the corner. If it's available."
"The one titled 'Breaking Free'?" Charity's smile turns wicked. "That one's particularly expensive."
"I would expect nothing less."
We talk for a few more minutes—careful, polite conversation that doesn't dig too deep.
They ask about Lucky (fully recovered, spoiled rotten).
They mention maybe coming to one of my performances (I won't hold my breath).
They awkwardly inquire about our apartment (small, perfect, none of their business).
When they finally leave, citing another engagement, Charity sags against me.
"Holy shit," she breathes. "Did that actually just happen?"
"You were magnificent." I kiss her temple, breathe in the scent of her. "Fierce and kind and completely yourself. I'm so fucking proud of you."
"They actually apologized. Sort of."
"Progress." I turn her to face me, cup her face in my hands. "You stood up to them. Set boundaries. Demanded respect. That's everything."
"I couldn't have done it without you."
"Bullshit. You're the strongest person I know." I kiss her softly. "You just needed to remember it."
She pulls back, eyes shining. "You know what the best part was?"
"What?"
"When my mother asked if we were struggling financially, and you had that look on your face—like you were about to laugh but holding it in."
I grin. "I've stolen bread from nobles who had less than I have in my account right now. The irony was too good."
"We really are doing okay, aren't we?"
"Cara, we're doing better than okay." I gesture to the sculpture, to the gallery full of people admiring her work. "You're a celebrated artist. I'm performing magic that makes people believe in wonder. We're living in Manhattan, together, happy. That's not just okay. That's fucking miraculous."
She kisses me then, right there in the middle of the gallery. Deep and thorough, not caring who sees. When we break apart, several patrons are staring. I flip them a casual salute.
"Want to get out of here?" I ask. "I know a food truck that makes incredible tacos."
"You're taking me from a fancy museum opening to a food truck?"
"I'm taking you anywhere you want to go. Tonight, tomorrow, always."
Her smile lights up the room. "Tacos sound perfect."
We slip out the side entrance, Charity's heels clicking on marble before we hit the street. The May air is crisp, carrying the smell of new growth, hot pretzels, and exhaust. My city. Our city.
"Draco?" She stops walking, turns to face me. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For helping me see myself." She touches my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "For being exactly who you are, unapologetically."
"That's what you do for people you love," I say. "You see them. All of them. The good, the broken, the parts they're still discovering."
"When did you get so wise?"
"Couple thousand years of practice." I laugh as if lying frozen for two thousand years gave me wisdom.
After pulling her close, I rest my forehead against hers.
"Plus, I had a good teacher. This stubborn heiress who showed me that freedom isn't just about escaping.
It's about choosing who you want to be."
"And who do you choose to be?"
"Yours," I say simply. "The man who gets to love you. Everything else is just details."
She kisses me again, softer this time. A promise, not a performance. When we finally make it to the food truck, we eat tacos sitting on a park bench, her fancy thrift shop dress getting wrinkled, my leather pants collecting dust.
My phone buzzes with notifications—a new booking request, a message from a producer interested in a TV special. Charity's phone chimes too—her agent, excited about interest from a museum in Chicago.
We ignore them all. Right now, it's just us, delicious, cheap handmade tacos, and the city lights overhead. Just like it should be.
"Think your parents will actually follow through?" I ask. "Coffee and all that?"
"Maybe." She leans against my shoulder. "Maybe not. But at least I said what I needed to say. At least I stopped pretending."
"That's all you can do."
"What about you? Any regrets about leaving the Sanctuary?"
I consider it. Less than a year ago, I was lost, angry, barely making enough money to eat. Now I'm performing at museums, living with the woman I love, building something real. "Not one," I say honestly. "I needed to find my own path. Turns out it led straight to you."
"Lucky me."
"Lucky us."
We sit here until the food truck closes, until the temperature drops and Charity starts to shiver. Then, I give her my jacket and we walk home through Manhattan streets, her hand in mine, both of us exactly where we belong.
Free. Together. Finally, completely ourselves.
And that's the real magic—not the tricks I perform on stage, but this. Us. Two broken people who found each other and decided to be whole.
Six months ago, I didn't believe in fate. Now, I think maybe Fortuna knew exactly what she was doing when she froze me in ice and woke me in Charity's world.
The goddess of luck works in mysterious ways.
But sometimes, she gets it exactly right.