Chapter 29
A LIFE. BEGINNING…
In the same hour, a new heart begins to beat and…
Dorian
The dinner at David and Flor’s ran late. Every two days, I sit at their table, and then we move to “the library” to talk about Della, of course. They are my therapists. My anchors.
Without even being aware of it, Della brought me closer to my friends. She caused a simultaneous earthquake, tornado and hurricane in my life—tearing down the cold walls I built—but she also brought me peace.
At first, I was pissed off. I felt her leaving was unjust and unfair. But now, after all these dinners and whiskey-soaked talks with David and Flor, I’ve realized something.
Love isn't about right and wrong or fair and unfair. It is about trust. It’s about the freedom to be who you are. It’s about understanding and accepting that the person you love may take another path for a while, but it doesn’t mean they are walking out of your life.
I just hope I’m standing at the end of her path when she decides to come home.
It’s past midnight when I finally leave. I drive aimlessly. I can’t face the penthouse yet. The silence there screams at me.
I find myself turning down streets I usually ignore, drifting through one of the older, tree-lined neighborhoods north of the city. Lincoln Park, but the quiet part. The part with roots.
I slow down at a stop sign and glance to my left.
A house.
A two-story stone estate, set back from the road with a massive oak tree in the front yard, its branches spreading like protective arms. A wooden swing hangs from one of the lower boughs, swaying slightly in the night breeze.
A memory comes to life— Della that night in the park, climbing onto that swing.
Her face was lit by moonlight, her silhouette against the sky.
“Let’s fly,” she said, laughing and pumping her legs until she was soaring.
We had talked about children, about what kind of life we wanted. A life like this.
A "For Sale" sign is staked in the lawn, looking slightly crooked.
I stare at the house, and suddenly, the vision of our future hits me with the force of a physical blow. It’s another memory but a memory of a future I haven’t lived yet.
I see us living there. Della reading in the bay window as I bring her a cup of tea and kiss her softly on the neck. I see a child running around that oak tree —our child…
It’s completely, beautifully ordinary.
And exactly what I want.
A home for us. A place where she can be safe, where we can be... a family.
I pull over to the curb, my heart hammering in my chest. I pull out my phone and take a picture of the house and the sign.
Then I dial my realtor, ignoring the time.
"Dorian? It's one a.m.," he groans.
"I found a house," I say, looking at the swing moving in the wind. "I want it. Get the paperwork ready. I'm buying it today."
* * *
Della
The landing in San Diego is rough—a series of jarring bumps that rattle my teeth and send my stomach into a sudden, violent roll.
"Oof," Silvia groans as we walk outside. "Remind me to write a strongly worded letter to the wind."
I force a laugh, but I keep my hand pressed to my stomach.
"I think I left my equilibrium somewhere over Nevada."
It marks the end of a journey that lasted a little over three weeks.
Three weeks of mountains, red rocks, and silence.
Three weeks of healing. I even managed two more online sessions with Dr. Davis from hotel rooms in Moab and Vegas, untangling the knots in my chest until I could finally breathe again.
We grab our bags and make our way through the terminal. It’s strange to be back.
The air here is familiar, salty and warm, but I feel different. The "me" who left nearly a month ago was shattered. The "me" walking to the Uber pickup zone is... stitched back together. There are scars, yes, but the wounds are closing.
As we wait for our ride, my eyes scan the crowd. It’s a habit now.
I spot him almost immediately.
A man in a tan jacket, reading a newspaper near the exit doors. He’s blending in, but I recognize the set of his shoulders. I saw him first at the gas station in Moab but I’m sure he’s been “traveling” with us from day one.
"He’s really good, actually," I murmur.
Silvia follows my gaze. "Who?"
"My shadow," I say, nodding toward the man.
Silvia stiffens. "Della, is that...?"
"Dorian's guy," I confirm. "I spotted him back in Utah."
Silvia frowns, her protective instinct flaring.
"And you didn't say anything? Does that... does that piss you off? That he had you followed?"
I look at the man again. Before, I would’ve been furious, felt controlled, as if Dorian were trying to own me. But now?
"No," I say honestly. "It doesn't."
Knowing he was there let me sleep a little deeper in those motels. Dorian didn't interfere. He just... watched over me.
"He kept his distance," I tell Silvia. "He respected the boundary. He just wanted to make sure I was safe. And honestly, Chiquita? It felt... good."
Our Uber pulls up. As I slide into the backseat, a wave of nausea hits me again, stronger this time.
The smell of the driver’s pine air freshener is suddenly overwhelming.
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.
I thought the triggers wouldn't hit me this hard anymore.
"You, okay?" Silvia asks, her hand on my knee. "You look pale."
"It’s the landing," I whisper, leaning my head back against the seat. "Mixed with old ghosts. It'll pass."
But as the car merges onto the highway, the queasiness doesn't fade.
I close my eyes, and I see Dorian’s face. I hold the sapphire between my fingers, and I just want to be in his arms. I pull out the phone and, although he probably already knows, I text him:
We’re back in San Diego. We’ll talk. Soon.
I open my eyes, and I see a future I'm finally brave enough to ask for.
* * *
Dorian
The text comes through while I’m standing in my office, staring out at the grid of Chicago lights.
We’re back in San Diego. We’ll talk. Soon.
I stare at the words until they blur. Soon.
It’s a single word, but it hits me with the force of a promise. A month ago, I would have been on the jet five minutes after receiving this, tearing through the sky to get to her.
But now, I just feel a cold, clawing restlessness.
I can't go to her. Not yet.
Because "Soon" isn't just a promise; it's a countdown. And I am not bringing her back to a world where she still has to look over her shoulder. I am not bringing her back if there is even a one percent chance that a ghost from the past can find us.
"Dorian."
David walks in, a tablet in his hand. He looks tired. We both are.
I turn to face him. "What's the status on the trap?"
"We're setting it up. The intermediary spoke to Morozov's people. They're interested in the evidence. They agreed to the terms—we deliver Andy, we get an hour, they handle the cleanup. But they want to vet the intel first. They’re asking for a meet in two days."
"No," I say, the word hard and flat.
David frowns.
"Dorian, these are Russians. You don't rush them. It’s just two days away. It gives us time to—"
"I don't have two days," I snap, slamming my hand onto the mahogany desk. "She’s back now. She’s ready to talk now. Every second Andy breathes air in this city is a second I am failing her."
I walk around the desk, my energy pacing like a caged animal.
"I waited more than I wanted to. Push it up. Tell them whatever you have to tell them. Just make it happen."
"That's risky," David warns, his voice low.
"I don't care about the risk to me. I care about the risk to her." I stop, locking eyes with him. "I want the trap sprung tonight. I want him gone by sunrise. Tonight, David. "
David holds my gaze for a long moment, assessing. He sees the fire in my eyes and nods once.
"I'll make the call. Tonight, at the distillery."
"Good." I look back at my phone, at her message. Soon.
"Tonight," I whisper to the empty room. "And then, I’m coming for you, My Love."
* * *
Della
The sun is shining brightly over San Diego, but my world is tilting on its axis.
I wake up early with a headache that feels like a vice, but that’s nothing compared to the stomach. The moment I sit up, the room spins.
"Ugh," I groan, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
Silvia is already in the kitchen. I can hear the coffee grinder whirring and Silvia singing.
But then the smell hits me. Fried bacon… and eggs.
My hand flies to my mouth. I barely make it to the bathroom, slamming the door and dropping to my knees in front of the toilet just as my stomach revolts.
I’m heaving until there’s nothing left, my body shaking, sweat pricking at my hairline.
"Della?" Silvia’s voice is panicked on the other side of the door. "Della, are you okay?"
I flush the toilet and lean back against the cool tile wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I... I don't know."
The door creaks open. Silvia peeks in, her face etched with worry. She sees me on the floor, pale and trembling.
"This isn't just motion sickness, Chiquita," she says, kneeling beside me and putting a hand on my forehead. "You're clammy. You’re shaking. Okay, that's it. We are going to the clinic."
"It’s probably just a virus," I whisper, leaning my cheek against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. "Something I caught at the airport."
She stands up, resolute.
"Probably. And that’s exactly why we are going to see a doctor right now."
"Fine." I pull myself up using the sink, splashing cold water on my face.
I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are glassy. My skin is pale.
But deep down, a suspicion is blooming. A quiet, terrifying, hopeful math equation is running in the back of my mind.
This nausea... it feels different.
I think back to the dates. Before the trip. Before San Diego. The boat, the nights at the lake house…
My hand drifts unconsciously to my lower stomach.
Impossible. Doctors said… close to zero chances.
"Silvia," I say, my voice steadying. "I'm going to the clinic. Alone."