Chapter 9
THE SWING AND THE STORM
Some loves wait, quiet and stubborn, under every scar
Dorian
She walked out, cool, composed, untouched on the outside.
But before she reached that door, I really looked at her. For the first time. Closely.
And I saw it.
The way her breath hitched. The slight tremor in her hands as she gathered her notes. The storm she thought she was hiding.
I should feel triumphant.
After all, I got what I wanted—her agreement. One meeting. A chance to finally talk.
But I don’t.
I leave the building and slide into the back seat of the car, telling the driver to just keep driving along the lakefront. I need air. Space. A moment to breathe.
And I need to talk to David and Flor. The ones who know me beyond the boardrooms and press headlines. Who knew me before her... and after. They’ll help me make sense of this—of her.
I shoot David a quick message, my fingers hesitating for a second before I hit send.
Then I lean back, my gaze drifting to the window.
And that’s when I see it.
The small park.
The one with the red swings.
I ask the driver to pull over.
I get out, walking toward the swings, hands deep in my pockets.
The park is empty, except for an elderly couple sitting quietly on a bench nearby.
And suddenly, it hits me.
* * *
That summer night—after dinner, when we decided to take a walk.
She wore a simple navy dress, sneakers, and that red shawl she always loved.
There was always something red with her. It was her way of saying she was alive. And living every second of it.
We walked along the shore, no one else in sight—as if the whole world belonged to us.
And then we found this little park.
She lit up at the sight of the swings—eyes sparkling, laughter spilling out—and she pulled me along, running toward them.
“Let’s fly,” she laughed, climbing onto the swing, pumping her legs until she was soaring.
“I’m not getting on that thing,” I said, half-laughing, half-shocked.
“You have to try it,” she called back, grinning.
“Della, I’m a grown man,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Not a child.”
“Oh, come on,” she teased, throwing her head back, arms stretched wide like wings as she swung higher and higher.
“We’re all children sometimes. Just let go.”
And then it slipped out of me—so naturally, without thinking. Words I’d never said aloud before.
“I can only imagine what our children would be like… if you’re this wild.” I teased, watching her fly through the air on the swing.
She slowed down instantly, dragging her feet along the gravel to stop. She hopped off the swing and walked straight to me, eyes shining. Without a word, she placed her hand over my heart and looked up at me—steady, radiant, unafraid.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” I asked, confused.
“For giving me that picture,” she said softly. “Of us. Together. With children. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever made me feel.”
I brushed a strand of hair from her face; completely undone by the way she looked at me.
“I think they’d have your smile,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Your spark. Your ridiculous need to argue with everything I say... sometimes.”
She laughed softly, and I felt it echo somewhere deep in my ribs.
“I hope they’d have your heart,” she replied. “You’d be a wonderful father, Dorian.”
And in that second, something inside me gave in.
I kissed her like I already knew—this was it. She was it. The one who made everything else fade.
In her eyes, I saw not just a dream, but a life. A future I never dared believe I could have.
And I loved every second of it.
* * *
Now I stand here again, staring at that empty swing across from me, and I feel something I’ve refused to name for years.
Love.
That deep, stubborn love we shared five years ago.
The kind I thought I’d buried forever. The kind I convinced myself she didn’t deserve after she left.
But I was wrong.
It’s still here—patient, quiet, waiting beneath every scar and every grudge.
And now, it’s tangled with something else.
Anger.
Because part of me still burns at the way she disappeared.
No calls. No letters. No explanations.
She just went back home and rebuilt her life—without me.
That’s what I saw in those photos—those cold, undeniable images that left no room for questions.
And somewhere beneath all that anger… there’s something even harder to face.
Fear.
Because I saw it in her eyes.
That night at the club—God, I can’t unsee it. That look haunts me, tightens around my throat when I least expect it. Whatever happened to her…
It wasn’t just time. Or distance.
It was something that broke her.
And I need to know what it was—no matter what it takes.
* * *
Later that evening, after changing into jeans and a black knit sweater, sleeves pushed up, I find myself standing on the familiar stone steps of David’s house.
It’s tucked away on a quiet street just outside the city—sun-warmed stone, climbing ivy, and soft golden light glowing through wide windows.
The house has a Mediterranean soul, shaped by David’s own hands—tiles he laid himself, wood he chose, stone he polished.
It feels lived-in, solid. A place built with care, not for show.
Rooted. Timeless. Like it existed forever—steady, untouched by the rush of the world outside.
David opens the door before I can even knock, like he’s been expecting me all along.
He’s in a worn T-shirt and jeans, sleeves casually rolled, still carrying the faint scent of sawdust and earth—calm, steady, exactly as always.
“Figured you’d show up,” he says, pulling me into a quick, firm hug, followed by a solid pat on the back—typical of him.
Inside, the house smells like roasted chicken, rosemary, and fresh bread—thick, comforting warmth that settles deep in the bones.
Flor is in the kitchen, her hair tied up, sleeves rolled, humming softly as she stirs something on the stove.
She glances over, eyes crinkling with that familiar spark.
“Hey, Dorian,” she calls out, flashing a teasing smile. “Don’t get me wrong—you look great. But tonight?”
She lets out a soft whistle.
“You look like hell.”
I let out a dry breath, lips twitching faintly.
“Well, I feel like hell.”
Flor turns off the stove, wipes her hands on a towel before walking over. She pulls me into a warm hug, and holds me there for a few quite seconds.
“Come on, you need something stronger than roasted chicken to start with,” she says, her voice playful but kind. “Let’s head to the library.”
As we head toward the back room—the so-called library—Flor glances back at me, studying me for a moment, then smirks.
“Still feels strange seeing you dressed down,” she teases, her voice light, but with that undercurrent of familiarity that only comes with years of shared history.
David’s lips twitch as he holds the door open.
“Yeah,” he adds dryly, “almost didn’t recognize you without the armor.”
Flor grins, tossing a playful look at her husband. “Admit it, you’re just jealous he makes black look good.”
David chuckles as he gestures toward my outfit. “All black? So overrated. Give me ragged jeans and a soft t-shirt any day. Real luxury.”
Their banter is easy, familiar—like they’ve been doing this for years. I almost envy it.
Flor smiles as she sets a dish on the table. “It’s rare we actually sit down and have dinner together.”
I raise an eyebrow. “We’ve had dinners before.”
“At restaurants. After work,” she counters, amused. “Or rushed coffee meetings squeezed between flights and boardrooms. This—” she gestures around the kitchen, warm and relaxed, “—you coming over, like this? It’s different. We need more of it. You need more of it. Come by more often, Dorian.”
“Maybe...” I murmur, my voice trailing as I glance down at the woodgrain of the table.
And for the first time in a while, I feel something loosen inside me. Not comfort, but close enough.
* * *
There’s not a single book here—only shelves lined with bottles. Dark glass. Deep amber liquid. Names in elegant fonts, some in Italian, others in bold American print. Old bourbons, rare Grappas, even a few limited-edition Scotch bottles.
David’s collection isn’t flashy. It’s intentional. Every bottle has its place, like a memory preserved in glass. This is the place where he unwinds, thinking of all the stories lived—or shared—over a glass of what he likes to call ‘bottled truth’.
He runs a hand slowly over the shelves, letting his fingers touch each bottle, each label, as if waiting to feel which one calls to him. He always does that. A quiet ritual.
He finally selects a bottle from the middle shelf—Blanton’s Single Barrel—and holds it for a moment, almost like greeting an old friend.
“Not the rarest,” he says, pouring two glasses, “but it’s honest. Some things don’t need to be expensive to be worth keeping.”
I take the glass without a word and sink into one of the worn leather armchairs—deep, soft, familiar. David settles into the one across from me, the low table between us.
Flor curls up on a pale fabric sofa nearby, one leg tucked under her, her drink in hand, completely relaxed in her favorite corner of the room.
David lights a cigar, slow and steady, every movement unhurried, almost like a quiet ceremonial. He offers me the box, tilting it slightly in my direction.
I shake my head, declining, and he simply smiles, saying nothing more.
He leans back, takes one slow drag, and the smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, settling into the corners of the room.
Then, without circling around it, he asks—steady, direct, no judgment in his voice.
“How bad is it?”
I don’t answer right away.
I stare at the whiskey in my glass, slowly swirling the amber liquid between my fingers.
“Bad,” I admit at last, my voice low and rough.
I swallow hard, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped for days.
“She agreed to see me,” I say plainly—no dressing it up, no pride in it.
David watches me, steady as always, his gaze quiet but sharp. Flor raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch.