Chapter 10 - Stay With MeSix months later, Chicago entered winter.
Snow touched the windows of the Valmont mansion.
Iris stood in the kitchen at 6:15.
Some habits survived revolutions.
Curtains.
Coffee.
Newspaper.
Except the thermostat was now set at a temperature normal humans could tolerate.
And there were two cups.
At 6:22, footsteps came down the staircase.
Strong.
Steady.
Nicholas appeared in the doorway wearing gray sweatpants and a black sweater.
Iris checked the clock.
“You’re late.”
“It is six twenty-two.”
“You used to wake at five.”
“I have been informed by several physicians and one deeply aggressive woman that sleep is necessary.”
“Excellent physicians.”
“I meant you.”
Nicholas approached.
He kissed her forehead.
Then reached for coffee.
She moved it away.
“Medication first.”
His face fell.
“This relationship has become oppressive.”
“You may file a complaint.”
“With whom?”
“Me.”
“Efficient.”
Nicholas took his medication.
His heart had recovered better than doctors expected.
Not completely.
The implanted device remained.
So did regular monitoring.
So did scars.
Nicholas no longer hid them.
The criminal cases continued.
Mercer accepted a plea agreement after prosecutors confronted him with Samuel Bennett’s ledger and Margaret’s testimony.
His statements linked Conrad to the original conspiracy against Elena.
Conrad maintained his innocence publicly.
Privately, according to prosecutors, the evidence was devastating.
Whether every question surrounding Samuel’s accident would ever be answered remained uncertain.
But Iris knew one truth.
Her father had mattered.
His courage had mattered.
And his daughter had completed something he began.
Valmont Global created an independent ethics office named after Samuel Bennett.
Nicholas did not ask Iris first.
She yelled at him for twenty minutes.
Then cried for thirty.
He considered both reactions positive.
Margaret retired.
Nicholas gave her a house in Maine.
She threatened to return it.
He threatened to buy the neighboring property.
She surrendered.
Evelyn became chair of the family trust oversight committee.
Marcus remained impossible to surprise.
And Iris finally finished her hospitality management degree.
Nicholas attended graduation.
He sat in the front row despite Iris specifically asking him not to attract attention.
A billionaire in the front row attracted attention.
Especially when he stood and applauded longer than anyone else.
“You embarrassed me,” she told him afterward.
“You graduated first in your class.”
“You did not have to tell strangers.”
“They asked.”
“Nobody asked.”
“That detail seems minor.”
Iris accepted the executive household contract eventually.
Then rewrote half of it.
She also used part of Nicholas’s original inheritance arrangement to create transitional housing grants for young adults leaving foster care.
The mansion remained legally Nicholas’s.
She refused to accept it while he was alive.
His response had been immediate.
“Fine. Then I’ll keep living.”
She had kissed him for that.
Now, on the first heavy snowfall of December, they ate breakfast together.
Nicholas opened the newspaper.
Iris watched his hand.
No tremor.
She still noticed.
Of course she did.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed.”
“Because?”
“I no longer pretend I don’t.”
Nicholas lowered the paper.
Their relationship had become public three months earlier.
Financial publications called Iris mysterious.
Society columns called her Cinderella.
One truly terrible article described her as “the maid who captured a billionaire’s heart.”
Iris had read it aloud at breakfast until Nicholas threatened to purchase the publication solely to close it.
The truth was much simpler.
Nobody captured anyone.
They had both spent years standing on opposite sides of a line neither had been brave enough to cross.
Death simply made the line look ridiculous.
Nicholas checked his watch.
“I need you ready by seven tonight.”
“For what?”
“Dinner.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s dinner.”
“With whom?”
“Me.”
“We eat together every night.”
“Wear something nice.”
Iris narrowed her eyes.
“Nicholas.”
He kissed her.
“Seven.”
Then walked away.
At exactly seven, Iris came downstairs wearing a dark green dress.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
“No staff?”
Nicholas had given everyone the evening off.
Snow fell outside.
Candles burned through the living room.
Iris stopped.
The furniture had been moved.
In the center of the room was the same leather sofa where she found Nicholas six months earlier.
Beside it sat two glasses of sparkling water.
No alcohol.
Cardiologist’s orders.
Nicholas stood near the windows.
Black suit.
No tie.
“Nicholas.”
He turned.
For once, the man seemed nervous.
Genuinely nervous.
Iris walked closer.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing yet.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He looked around.
“Do you remember this room?”
She laughed softly.
“Unfortunately.”
“I thought I was going to die here.”
Her smile faded.
Nicholas continued.
“I had already organized everything. My company. My money. My funeral. I thought dying was simply another problem I could manage if I made enough lists.”
Iris approached.
“Then you walked in.”
His eyes softened.
“You looked terrified.”
“I was terrified.”
“You tried to hide it.”
“So did you.”
“I wasn’t successful.”
“No.”
Nicholas smiled.
“That night I asked you to stay because I wanted one thing I couldn’t purchase.”
“Someone who chose you.”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“When you said yes, something happened.”
“What?”
“I became afraid to die.”
Iris’s throat tightened.
“I had spent weeks convincing myself death didn’t matter. Then you sat beside me and suddenly I wanted breakfast.”
She laughed through gathering tears.
“Romantic.”
“Wait. It improves.”
“Questionable.”
“I wanted another argument over the thermostat. Another morning watching you pretend not to notice I was watching you. Another chance to tell you things I had been too afraid to say.”
Nicholas reached into his jacket.
Iris’s heartbeat stopped.
“Don’t.”
He froze.
“What?”
“If you pull out a medical report, I will kill you myself.”
Nicholas laughed.
Then removed a small velvet box.
“Oh.”
Iris covered her mouth.
Nicholas did not kneel immediately.
Instead, he held the box between them.
“I don’t want gratitude.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to say yes because I helped with school.”
“I know.”
“Or because of the house.”
“I know.”
“Or because your father and my mother connected our lives before we understood any of it.”
“Nicholas.”
“I need to say this correctly.”
“You’re talking too much again.”
“I’m terrified.”
The same admission as the car six months earlier.
Iris smiled.
Nicholas opened the box.
Inside was a simple diamond ring.
Elegant.
Not enormous.
She was almost shocked.
“You bought something subtle?”
“I was supervised.”
“Evelyn?”
“Margaret.”
“That explains it.”
Nicholas took the ring.
Then he finally knelt.
Iris’s tears fell.
“Iris Bennett, I have spent most of my life believing anything valuable had to be controlled before someone could take it away.”
He looked up.
“You taught me that love is the opposite.”
Her lips trembled.
“You cannot control whether someone stays.”
He continued.
“You can only give them reasons to choose you and hope they do.”
Nicholas breathed in.
“The first night I asked you to stay, I thought I was asking for a few hours.”
He smiled.
“I was wrong.”
Iris was openly crying now.
“So I’m asking again.”
He held up the ring.
“Stay with me.”
She laughed.
“Nicholas.”
“Tonight.”
Another tear fell.
“Tomorrow.”
She nodded.
“When I’m difficult.”
“You’re always difficult.”
“When I’m afraid.”
She reached for him.
“When we’re old.”
Her voice broke.
“Yes.”
Nicholas stopped.
“Was that—”
“Yes.”
His entire face changed.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“I had another paragraph.”
“Nicholas.”
“Possibly two.”
She pulled him to his feet.
“Yes.”
Then she kissed him.
The ring nearly fell because Nicholas forgot he was holding it.
Iris laughed against his mouth.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“I have never proposed before.”
“I would hope not.”
He placed the ring on her finger.
For several seconds they simply stared at it.
Then Nicholas touched her cheek.
“Mrs. Valmont.”
“Don’t rush.”
“I waited five years.”
“You spent four of them pretending I was furniture.”
“Extremely attractive furniture.”
Iris hit his shoulder.
Nicholas laughed.
The sound filled the room.
Six months earlier, the same room had contained broken glass, fear and the certainty of an approaching end.
Now snow pressed quietly against the windows.
The city continued below.
And Nicholas finally understood something his money had never taught him.
A house was not a home because someone slept there.
A person did not belong to you because you paid them.
Love was not proven by who came when everything was beautiful.
It was proven by who remained when there was nothing to gain.
At 10:30, Nicholas went upstairs.
Iris stayed behind long enough to switch off the lights.
Some habits were difficult to break.
She checked the doors.
Adjusted the curtains.
Collected two glasses.
Then she climbed the staircase.
Nicholas was already in bed.
He looked at her.
“You’re actually coming?”
“I live here.”
“Technically—”
“Do not start discussing property law on our engagement night.”
He shifted beneath the covers.
Iris changed and joined him.
There was no fear now.
No medical bottle beside the bed except the approved medication.
No envelope containing funeral instructions.
No secret report locked in a drawer.
Only the soft light of snow beyond the windows.
Nicholas turned toward her.
“Iris?”
She smiled.
“What?”
“Stay with me tonight.”
The words were identical.
The reason was completely different.
The first time, Nicholas had wanted someone beside him because he believed he was dying.
This time, he wanted her beside him because he finally understood how much he wanted to live.
Iris placed her hand over his heart.
The rhythm beneath her palm was steady.
Imperfect.
Scarred.
Alive.
“I’ll stay,” she whispered.
Nicholas closed his eyes.
And for the first time since he was nine years old, Nicholas Valmont fell asleep without fearing that morning might arrive without him.
It did arrive.
At 6:15, pale winter light entered the bedroom.
At 6:17, Iris woke.
At 6:20, Nicholas opened his eyes and found her still there.
He smiled.
No armor.
No audience.
No transaction.
Just choice.
And downstairs, in a kitchen that had once been nothing more than another perfect room in a billionaire’s empty mansion, two coffee cups waited beside each other.
One for the man who had once believed he owned everything.
And one for the woman who taught him that the things worth having could never truly be owned at all.
They could only be chosen.
Again.
May you like
And again.
Every morning that followed.
