Chapter 49 #3
He thrusts deeper, leaning down to kiss my breasts and the moment his lips touch my nipples, and I feel that gentle suck, I explode. The orgasm rushes through me, and I pull him against me as hard as my legs will allow.
His body stiffens, a groan escaping as his warmth fills me, as he drains every last drop. He holds me through the orgasm, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath ragged, his arms shaking.
“Teodora.”
Gabriel doesn’t call me by my full name very often. But when he does, I always love it.
We stay tangled together for a long time afterward.
It’s a rainy evening and neither of us have any place to be.
His head rests on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns across his shoulders.
His breathing slows and I think he might be falling asleep until his hand drifts to my stomach—still the body he’s worshiped since our first night together.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says, flashing me a wry smile.
“I’m not thinking.”
“You’re always thinking.” He lifts his head and kisses my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m just happy.”
“Good,” he says, settling back against me. “Good.”
I pull him closer and kiss him again, closing my eyes and smiling in only the way my family can make me.
The nursery is dark except for the nightlight—a little moon that casts soft amber light across the ceiling. We stand in the doorway in our robes, shoulder to shoulder, looking in.
Lev is in his toddler bed, sprawled on his back in one of those silly poses that toddlers are so fond of. One arm is flung above his head, the other wrapped around his stuffed elephant—the gift from Sissy that’s still his favorite. His dark hair, now curly, is wild against the pillow.
He looks just like Gabriel, except for his eyes. Those are mine, wide and blue.
In the crib beside him, two months old and impossibly small, is Masha.
Masha Ana Moretti. Named for my mother and my sister, two women whom I never got to know, but whose names my daughter will carry. If we ever have another boy, he will have my brother’s name—it’s already been decided.
She’s sleeping on her back; tiny fists curled beside her head. She has Gabriel’s hair, as well, but my nose.
“She looks like you,” Gabriel says.
I smile. “She does. But she also kind of looks like a potato.”
He chuckles. “All newborns kind of look like a potato.”
“But a cute potato,” I add, raising a finger. “A beautiful potato.”
“The most beautiful potato,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close.
“Do you think he’ll be good with her?” I ask. “You know. When he’s older.”
“He’ll be protective.”
“And probably a little terrifying.”
“Also possible.”
“Like his father.”
He smiles again, then presses a kiss to my temple.
We stand there for a moment longer, watching them sleep as we listen to the evening rain patter against the windows.
Two little lives, safe in a room of soft light, knowing nothing about what it took to bring them both into this world.
They know nothing about auctions or nightclubs or evil men with guns, nor will they ever.
That’s the point. The whole point.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand just as we’re getting back into bed. I smile as I lean over to read the text, knowing who it is.
Sylvie.
Lunch tomorrow? I’m thinking that new Thai place on Amsterdam. I have big news and need Pad See Ew to deliver it properly.
I respond with a heart emoji.
For sure. Noon?
A thumbs up.
Sylvie moved out about eight months ago to a one-bedroom in Morningside Heights.
Close enough to visit, but far enough away that she’s on her own.
She’s enrolled at Columbia and starts in January.
She’s going to study psychology with a focus on trauma recovery.
When she told me she’d gotten in, I’d cried so hard, she threatened to make me her first patient. We both laughed.
She’s not the same Sylvie she was before the auction. She never will be. But she’s also not the same Sylvie from when I found her, when Gabriel and I brought her here to live, to recover. I am not the same either. We’re both messier, scarred but rebuilt.
And we’re still standing.
We get lunch every Thursday. She’s the godmother to our kids. And she’s always down for babysitting when Gabriel and I need a date night.
I can’t wait. What’s the news?
Nope. Tomorrow. I want to see your face when I tell you.
You’re killing me.
You’ll survive.
Can’t wait.
I set my phone down, smiling.
Gabriel emerges from the bathroom, studying me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re smiling.”
“People smile, babe. It’s kind of a normal human function.”
“You’re smiling in a very specific way,” he says, crossing over to the bed and sitting on the edge. “The way you smile when you’re talking to Sylvie.”
“We’re getting lunch tomorrow. She has news.”
“News?” He raises an eyebrow. “Did she tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing.” He says the word too quickly. “Good. Have fun.”
I’m not letting him off the hook that easily.
“What do you know that I don’t about my best friend?”
“Nothing at all. Let’s get some rest.”
He tries to casually slide under the covers, but I stop him.
“No way. Tell me what’s going on.”
He sighs. “I suppose now is as good a time as ever.”
Gabriel reaches over, opening a drawer in his nightstand and taking out a cream-colored folder. It’s thick. He sets it on the bed between us.
“Open it,” he says.
I look at him. His expression is careful and neutral.
Still skeptical, I open the folder.
The first page is a letter—formal and embossed.
Dear Mrs. Moretti,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Columbia University’s Department of Anthropology's full-degree program beginning spring 2028.
I stop reading. I look up.
“Full ride,” he says. “Tuition, books, everything. I spoke with the department chair and asked her to read some of your writing, the essays you’ve been working on, as well as some stuff from your senior year in high school. She used the phrase ‘unusually perceptive.’ I agreed with her.”
I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, he keeps talking, so I don’t have to say anything.
“This was a team effort,” he adds. “Liza and Sissy helped with the high school information, and Sylvie pitched in getting everything to Columbia. That’s why I was worried she’d spilled—she’s been so excited at the idea of you two going to school together that she’s been on the verge of exploding.”
My hands are shaking. The words on the letter blur as my eyes fill with tears.
“Gabriel—”
“You told me you wanted to go to college, that you wanted to study something that mattered to you. It’s time we make that happen.”
A tear drops onto the letter. Then another.
“You got me into Columbia.”
“You got yourself in. I just filed the paperwork.”
I launch myself at my husband. The letter crumples but I don’t care. I kiss him. I’m laughing and crying all at once. His arms wrap around me and he begins laughing, too.
“Thank you,” I say against his lips. “Thank you so much.”
“You deserve this,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at me. “You deserve the world.”
I grab the letter and hold it to my chest. Outside the window, the city is alive, and full of the kind of possibility I was certain wasn’t meant for people like me.
I was wrong.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you,” he whispers back, “always.”
Still thinking about Thea and Gabriel?
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