Chapter 30
Emilia
The evening fog had rolled in, shrouding the city in a cool, misty blanket.
Damian looked tense, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, and I knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy, especially for me. But it needed to happen. I was ready. It took me four weeks after the night of the gala to organize my thoughts in a way that made sense, so I could finally articulate them.
When I suggested a walk, it was in the hope that the fresh air might make the discussion a little less stifling.
We stepped out onto Market Street, heading toward the waterfront. This part of Market was gritty and worn, a contrast to the glossy skyscrapers and trendy shops further up where the Archers and their ilk lived.
But I was more at home here. I wondered how Damian felt. Did he think this was temporary and once the divorce came through he'd be back at the Four Seasons? If so, why hadn't he signed those damn papers?
We walked in silence for a few blocks, passing shuttered storefronts and graffiti-covered walls. As we approached the Ferry Building, the ambiance began to change. The streetlights cast a warm glow, and we could hear the distant sound of the bay lapping against the piers.
"Why haven't you signed the divorce papers?" I asked him, flinching at my own question. This was not how I wanted to start this conversation. In my head I had thought I'd be graceful and calm, not sound like an angry fish wife.
"Because I don't want a divorce." He was the calm one. It infuriated me.
"Why?"
"I'm in love with you."
I gritted my teeth. I didn't believe him, not even a little bit. I didn't know what his game was this time. But I wanted to believe him, so very badly.
"Fuck you." So much for being graceful!
“I know you’re upset.” Damian's voice was low, tentative.
No shit, Sherlock.
I was surprised that I was still so angry. I had thought when I suggested the walk that pouring all my pain onto the canvas had eased me enough that I could actually talk to him beyond good morning and saying, "Yes, I would like a cup of coffee."
“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it,” I replied, my words sharper than I intended. “I feel like my whole world has been turned upside down.”
He nodded, his jaw tightening. “I never meant to hurt you, Emilia. I thought I was protecting us.”
“By lying to me?” I asked, stopping to look at him. “How is that protecting us?”
"If you knew why I married you, you'd kick my ass out of your life."
"Look how well that’s working for me." I sounded like a complete bitch.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said placidly. "You kick me out, I'm just going to follow you around. I'll sit outside your door. Actually, my whole family will."
His family had been great. They had apologized, certainly, but had not asked for forgiveness. Marcela had even said that what she had done was unforgiveable and hoped that I'd move past it.
"I still think your art is magic. Wouldn't have given you a job otherwise…though I did sabotage that for you."
"I don't understand you, Marcela. You kept saying I was unsuited to be an Archer."
"I'm pretty uncomplicated, Emilia. I love my family. I love my sons. My son loves you, ergo, you're suited to be an Archer. I thought he was in love with Bianca and your sister…I've known her for a long time and your mother who I thought was a friend and between them, they did a number on me about you."
Marcela had admitted that she never doubted Maeve because she couldn’t imagine a world where a mother would say something so disparaging about her own child without it being true. We continued our walk, crossing the Embarcadero and heading toward the Bay Bridge, its lights twinkling in the fog.
"I didn't expect to fall in love with you, but I did. With all of you. Your art. Your optimism. Your big heart. Your perfect pussy,” Damian explained.
"Then why didn't you tell me why you married me?" I felt so wretched.
He took my hand in his. "I was afraid to lose you."
"And now?"
"Shit scared that I have lost you."
"You have," I lied. He hadn't. He knew that. I knew that. His family knew that. Moana knew that. Liza knew that. Tech and Torture knew that. Hell, the drug dealers living upstairs who didn't know us very well knew that.
"Not happening, Em. I thought I loved Bianca but…when I found out she cheated on me, I got furious. Not hurt. I was angry. That was my first emotion. And then I decided to show her how it felt to be cheated on and calculated who would be the ideal candidate."
"You know she has friends. You could’ve fucked any of them and she'd have been just as pissed," I snarked.
He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed it. "I wanted you. I don't know why; but it had to be you."
I wrenched my hand away from him. "Your whole family thought I was the wrong wife, the wrong sister."
"I was the wrong husband," he interjected. "Me. I fucked up. You're amazing, Em. I can't regret how we got together. I'm so fucking happy your sister cheated on me and I got so angry that I decided to fuck you."
"Why did you marry me? I understand the fucking part."
He stopped walking and turned to face me, his eyes filled with hope. "I've asked myself that and I did because…baby, I couldn't just have sex with you. I wanted you to be mine. Don't ask me why. I don't have clear answers. But I do know that in my gut, my heart, my dick, I knew that I had to marry you before I fucked you."
In his dick? The man had a way with words. I found it amusing and had to purse my lips so as to not smile.
We continued walking along the waterfront, the city’s skyline glowing softly in the distance. The sound of our footsteps echoed off the pavement, a rhythmic reminder of the distance between us.
"And now you love me?"
"Madly."
"Well, I don't love you." Liar, liar pants on fire!
"You can't live without me," he said arrogantly.
That got my back up. "Fuck you, Damian."
"With pleasure, darling."
We reached Pier 14 and strolled onto the long, narrow walkway. The fog was thicker here, enveloping us in a bubble of quiet. The bay’s dark water lapped gently against the pier, and for a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.
“Trust is a two-way street, Damian,” I said finally. “How can I believe in you when you didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth?”
He looked down, kicking at a loose pebble. “I trust you implicitly. Do you know why? Because you have no agenda. You speak from your heart and mind. I also know you well. You reacted just as I expected—you saw the way we got married as a judgment on you, but it wasn’t. It was on me. I was a prick."
"I thought you found me attractive."
"Did you really think that?" he challenged me.
"Yes," I admitted.
"Maybe you did for a second; but Em, you then convinced yourself that I married you because I was drunk," he contended, "We had amazing sex. You came three times. If I was that far gone, how do you think I managed to get it up?"
"The truth is, Damian, I couldn't understand why you married me," I confessed sheepishly. "It makes sense now. It was revenge and—"
"Why did I move in with you?"
I looked at him thoughtfully. I had plenty of narratives in my head but none of them made sense. "I don't know."
"Because I love you. And you know why you were so hurt when I left you right after we got married?"
I shook my head. But I knew and I knew he knew.
"Because you love me." He kissed my lips.
I pulled away. He wasn’t getting away that easily. Asshole.
"You just like how hot the sex is. What happens when that wears off?"
He laughed now. "Christ, Em, you cook up all kinds of scenarios in your head so you can continue to believe you aren't anything special. We have fucking amazing chemistry. I've had that with no one, and I've fucked a few women in my life."
I punched him on his shoulder. "We aren't talking about the legions of women you've had sex with."
"Bianca slept with another man and I wanted revenge. You sleep with another man, hell, you kiss another man and I'll fucking kill him and lock you up."
A thrill ran through me. "Maybe you think all this over the top 'I'm Tarzan, You're Jane' nonsense is sexy, but it isn't. You sound like a jealous sociopath."
"Why can't I be both sexy and a sociopath?" he joked.
I looked at him then and saw nothing but sincerity on his face. I understood what he was trying to say, and I desperately wanted to believe him; but it was hard. I was afraid. Fear was potent. It made you do stupid things like…lie to your wife about why you married her?
"Repeat after me," I said on impulse, "From this day forth…"
"From this day forth…"
"I will never ever lie to Emilia no matter how ugly the truth is."
He repeated what I said.
"So?" He cupped my cheek. "Baby, put me out of my misery?"
"I’m not like Bianca,” I said, stepping closer to him. “I’m Emilia. I don't lie or play games. I don't even have a filter most of the time. I want to be your partner, not someone you feel you need to protect from life.”
“I want to be better,” Damian said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to be someone you believe in, someone you rely on.”
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision before me. “I'm going to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and be socially awkward. I'm not going to dress like an Archer."
"And how do you think an Archer dresses?"
"I see your mother. Her casual ensemble costs more than what my loft would if I had to buy it."
"Wear whatever you want, I don’t give a shit. I think you look good in a fucking sack. And speaking of your loft, you own it already so—."
"What does that mean?"
"Archer bought it, which means you are an owner."
"I signed a post-nuptial agreement," I reminded him.
He shrugged. "Never filed it."
"What?"
He nodded, taking my hand in his. “I should have. But even then, in the beginning, I knew that I wanted this to work, to last. The PR circus was just an excuse. I can see that now."
I eyed him suspiciously. "It was the sex that first night, wasn't it? I gave good sex."
The smile on his face made my heart beat faster. "You give the best sex, Em." His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were moist.
I sniffled and pulled him into a hug.
I wanted to talk about so many things. I wanted to tell him how I wanted to go back to school in Chicago. Or maybe I could go to art school here.
I wanted to tell him how I wanted to paint full time and not do restoration work anymore.
I wanted to tell him I wanted to have babies.
But we had time. A lifetime. So, I held on to him, letting him know that I loved him.
"Thank God, Em. Thank fucking God."
I felt his tears against my neck, and I knew that he could feel mine as well. In my defense, I cried a lot and easily—he didn't, so it was special, and it made me cry even harder.
"I love you," I whispered to soothe him.
He lifted his head and kissed my nose. "I love you too."
We stood there for a while, watching the fog drift across the bay.
"Let's go home, I need to finish the painting."
"I thought you finished it."
"Not yet. In the sky I want to paint a swarm of butterflies with wings of stained glass. I want their fragile beauty to contrast with the harshness of the landscape."
"Butterflies?"
"Yes." I kissed him softly. "They represent hope."
As we walked back, hand in hand, I ventured into more contentious subjects like where we would live. "Now, Damian, marriage is all about compromise."
"Fucking hell, Em," he growled.
"I don't like the Four Seasons."
"We can't live in a loft once we have kids."
"Whoa! Kids, already? We're barely married, this is the first time we even said I love you to each other. Slow your motor, dude."
"Don't call me dude."
"Why the hell not?"
"I'm your husband, not a dude."
"You call me baby."
"That's an endearment."
"So is dude."
"You only say it when you're pissed and…." We bickered all the way home. It was awesome.