Z

Vincent and I dated for nine months before he mentioned marriage.

That alone proved he'd changed.

Old Vincent would have proposed after three dates because patience offended him personally.

New Vincent understood that rebuilding a relationship was different from reclaiming property.

We went to therapy.

Separately first.

Then together.

Vincent hated it.

Which made me enjoy therapy more.

Our therapist, Dr. Elaine Porter, once asked him, “What do you feel when Claire sets a boundary you don't like?”

Vincent answered, “Annoyed.”

I laughed.

Elaine nodded.

“And what do you do with that annoyance?”

“Complain to Marco.”

I laughed harder.

“Do you pressure Claire?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Vincent looked at me.

“Because her boundary exists even when I dislike it.”

Elaine smiled.

I nearly cried.

We weren't perfect.

There were fights.

Real ones.

Once, Vincent missed dinner because a casino security issue exploded at the worst possible moment.

I spiraled.

By the time he arrived two hours late, I was convinced nothing had changed.

“You said seven,” I snapped.

“I know.”

“You didn't answer.”

“My phone was in the command room.”

“There's always an emergency.”

He froze.

So did I.

Suddenly we were back there.

Hospital.

Victoria.

Abandonment.

Vincent slowly removed his jacket.

“Claire.”

“Don't.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know things happen.”

“But?”

“But I can't live wondering whether I'm always going to become optional the moment someone else has a crisis.”

His face changed.

He sat across from me.

“You're right.”

“I don't want to be right.”

“What would have helped tonight?”

I blinked.

“What?”

“What should I have done?”

“You could've had someone call.”

“Yes.”

“You have approximately four thousand employees.”

“Thirty-two thousand.”

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

Vincent reached across the table but stopped before touching me.

“I should have called.”

“Yes.”

“I will next time.”

“You can't promise there won't be emergencies.”

“No.”

“But you can promise not to disappear.”

“Yes.”

And he kept that promise.

Three months later, a massive power failure shut down two Moretti properties.

Vincent disappeared from dinner.

Five minutes later Marco called.

“Your boyfriend would like you to know the Belladonna has become a very expensive dark box.”

I laughed.

“Is everyone okay?”

“Yes. He says he'll call when they stabilize operations.”

“Thank you.”

Marco groaned.

“I hate being emotionally responsible.”

It was ridiculous.

And exactly what I needed.

Sophia turned one.

Vincent cried during her birthday party and denied it afterward.

“You were crying.”

“There was smoke.”

“From what?”

“Candles.”

“One candle.”

“Very smoky candle.”

By Sophia's second birthday, we had built a new rhythm.

She spent time between both homes.

Eventually, so did Vincent.

Not permanently.

Carefully.

Sometimes he stayed at my apartment.

Sometimes Sophia and I stayed at the penthouse.

The master bedroom had been redesigned.

Not because I asked.

Because Vincent said he wanted no room in the house to belong to a marriage we had already buried.

I appreciated that.

On a warm October evening, nearly three years after Sophia's birth, Vincent invited me to dinner.

Same small Italian restaurant from our first post-divorce date.

I became suspicious immediately.

“If a violinist appears, I'm leaving.”

“No violin.”

“Flowers?”

“No.”

“Champagne?”

“Water.”

“You're frightening me.”

He smiled.

We ate.

Dessert arrived.

Nothing hidden inside.

No ring.

I relaxed.

After dinner, we walked outside.

Vincent stopped beneath a streetlight.

“What?”

“I have something to ask you.”

“There it is.”

“No ring.”

I stared.

He held up empty hands.

“See?”

“Then what?”

He looked nervous.

That made me nervous.

“Do you want to marry me?”

I laughed.

“That's generally where the ring comes in.”

“I have one.”

“Where?”

“At home.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want jewelry influencing your answer.”

I stared at him.

Only Vincent Moretti could make an engagement ring sound like a bribe.

“You bought a ring before asking?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

“If you say no, you'll never see it.”

I smiled.

“What exactly are you asking?”

His expression sobered.

“I am asking whether the woman you are now wants to build a marriage with the man I am now.”

My throat tightened.

“No promises about forever?”

“I'll promise effort forever.”

“No promise you'll never hurt me?”

“I probably will.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Emotionally.”

“Excellent clarification.”

He smiled faintly.

“But I'll never knowingly make you feel disposable again.”

Tears filled my eyes.

“And if you do?”

“You leave.”

The answer stunned me.

Vincent stepped closer.

“And I don't get to say you can't.”

I thought about the woman I had been three years earlier.

Bleeding in a hospital bed.

Waiting for elevator doors to open.

Believing love meant enduring whatever came.

Then I thought about the woman I was now.

Financially independent.

Divorced.

A mother.

A partner by choice.

Not because vows trapped me.

Not because the Moretti name intimidated me.

Because I wanted him.

“Yes.”

Vincent stopped breathing.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

His eyes closed.

Then he laughed.

A broken, relieved sound.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Still asking?”

“Always.”

“Yes.”

He kissed me beneath the streetlight.

When we separated, I touched his face.

“Show me the ring.”

“You said jewelry shouldn't influence you.”

“I already answered.”

He smiled.

“It's at home.”

“Drive faster.”

“Claire.”

“Within the speed limit.”

“There she is.”

The ring was nothing like my first one.

My original engagement ring had been enormous.

A Moretti diamond meant to impress entire rooms.

The new ring was smaller.

An oval stone on a simple band.

Inside were engraved five words.

ONE DAY AT A TIME.

I cried when I read them.

Vincent held me.

“I thought you'd hate it.”

“I do.”

“Why are you crying?”

“Because I love it.”

“Women make no sense.”

I hit his chest.

He kissed my hair.

Three years earlier, I'd left fifteen index cards explaining how he'd lost me one day at a time.

Now he had turned those same words into a promise.

Not that we'd never fail.

Not that pain could be erased.

Only that neither of us would ever again assume tomorrow belonged to us.