Chapter 9 - The Rewrite
The sun broke over Lake Michigan the following morning, burning away the gray remnants of the storm and casting a brilliant, golden light across the skyline of downtown Chicago.
Inside the master suite of the Moretti-Cross penthouse, the world felt entirely different.
The divorce papers—those cold, bloodless documents printed on expensive legal cardstock—had been shredded into a hundred tiny pieces and tossed into the fireplace downstairs.
Alina stood by the floor-to-ceiling bedroom window, wrapped in one of Dorian’s soft, oversized cashmere sweaters, sipping a cup of warm ginger tea that finally stayed down.
Behind her, the bed was a tangle of rumpled sheets.
Dorian stood by the dresser, buttoning the cuffs of a crisp white dress shirt. He looked different, too. The hunted, paranoid tension that had defined him for the last six months was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, grounded authority.
He walked up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his lips brushing softly against her neck. ☕️
"How are you feeling?" he whispered, his hands coming to rest gently over her still-flat stomach.
"Better," she smiled, leaning back into his embrace. "The morning sickness is still there, but... knowing you didn't actually want to get rid of me helps settle the stomach."
Dorian chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her spine. "I was an idiot. I admit it. For a man who prides himself on calculating every variable, trying to push away the only person I ever truly loved was the single worst mathematical error of my life."
"You thought you were protecting me," she murmured, turning around in his arms to face him. She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "Just... don't ever try to handle a war alone again, Dorian. We're a team. For richer, for poorer, remember?"
"I remember," Dorian said, his dark eyes softening completely as he looked down at her. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, deep, possessive kiss that tasted of morning coffee and absolute permanence.
When they finally broke apart, Dorian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy velvet box.
Alina blinked in surprise. "What's this?"
"Arthur’s assets were seized under emergency RICO provisions by the federal prosecutor this morning," Dorian explained smoothly, opening the box to reveal a stunning, custom-designed diamond and emerald ring that caught the morning light. "And since our divorce papers were never actually filed with the county clerk... I figured it was time to upgrade your engagement ring to something that properly reflects the mother of my future heirs."
May you like
Alina stared at the ring, a bright, watery laugh bubbling up from her chest. "Dorian Cross... are you proposing to your own wife?"
"I'm locking you down permanently, Alina," he corrected, sliding the heavy ring onto her finger with practiced ease. "There are no escape clauses left."
