Chapter 10 - The Unsigned Papers
Three days later, the morning sun was streaming brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse living room, washing the hardwood floors in warm, golden light.
The city outside was buzzing, but inside, it was impossibly quiet.
I sat curled up on the large velvet sofa with a mug of warm herbal tea in my hands, watching the morning news broadcast on the silent television screen. Headlines scrolled across the bottom in bold red letters:
FEDERAL RAID SMASHES MORETTI SYNDICATE; DOSSIERS IMPLICATE DOZENS IN MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR CORRUPTION SCANDAL; BROTHERS VINCENT AND JULIAN MORETTI ARRESTED.
It was over. The nightmare that had cast a dark, suffocating shadow over our lives for half a year had been dismantled piece by piece in less than forty-eight hours, swept away by federal indictments and the unyielding weight of Dorian’s corporate counter-offensive.
Footsteps sounded down the hallway, and Dorian walked into the living room.
He had showered, shaved, and changed into a soft gray cashmere sweater and dark jeans. He looked like the man I had fallen in love with years ago—not the ruthless corporate titan or the hunted fugitive, but the man who used to burn Sunday morning pancakes and insist they were supposed to be that dark.
In his hand, he carried a thick manila folder.
He walked over to the sofa, sat down beside me, and placed the folder on the coffee table between us.
I looked down at it. Sticking out from beneath the flap was a corner of thick legal paper with a signature line at the bottom.
My old divorce papers.
Dorian followed my gaze, his expression softening. He reached out, gently taking my hand in his, his fingers interlacing with mine.
“I kept them in my desk safe at the office,” Dorian said quietly. “I was going to hand them to my lawyer to shred the day after we finalized the separation facade. I never wanted to sign them, Alina. Every fiber of my soul screamed against it.”
I looked up into his stormy grey eyes, feeling a profound, aching peace settle deep into my chest.
“You never signed them either,” I noted softly, pointing a finger at the blank signature line bearing my name.
“I told you,” Dorian murmured, leaning in to press his forehead gently against mine. “I only ever wanted one wife. And I sure as hell wasn't going to let some paper in a courtroom change that.”
He picked up a gold fountain pen from the table, clicked off the cap, and handed it to me.
“What is this for?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“To cross out every single word in that agreement,” Dorian smiled, his eyes warm and bright with a future we had almost lost. “And then, if you're willing to give a disgraced corporate lawyer another chance... I want to take my wife out for breakfast. Real breakfast. Not hospital food, not safehouse rations.”
A genuine laugh bubbled up from my chest—light, free, and unburdened for the first time in six months.
May you like
“Only if you promise,” I whispered, sliding my hand into his and pressing the pen firmly against the paper until the legal text tore right down the middle, “that you are never, ever allowed anywhere near the kitchen.”
Dorian laughed—a rich, deep sound that filled the penthouse—and pulled me tightly against his chest, right where I belonged.
