Chapter 6 - The man I had married would have said no.
The man I left would have called lawyers.
The man sitting on the nursery floor with a half-built mobile in his hand looked at me as if loving me finally meant accepting that I belonged to myself.
I stood carefully.
Dante rose immediately to help.
I let him.
“I don’t want the marriage we had.”
His face became still.
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t want to go back to pretending.”
“We won’t.”
“I don’t want to be protected from your life by being excluded from it.”
“You won’t be.”
“I don’t want promises you make because you’re afraid I’ll leave.”
He swallowed.
“What do you want?”
I looked into his eyes.
“Consistency.”
He nodded.
“Honesty.”
Another nod.
“I want you to come home before everything is already broken.”
His eyes glistened.
“I will.”
“And if another woman crosses a boundary—”
“She won’t get the chance.”
“That sounded like old Dante.”
“It was.”
I almost smiled.
He stepped closer but stopped before touching me.
“Lena.”
“I haven’t forgiven everything.”
“I know.”
“Some days I might hate you again.”
“I can live with that.”
“I might bring up Sofia when we argue.”
“I deserve that.”
“Not forever.”
He waited.
“But for a while.”
“I’ll take a while.”
My breath trembled.
“I don’t want to sign the final papers next week.”
Dante’s eyes closed.
He lowered his head.
His shoulders shook once.
I had brought him to his knees with an ultrasound photograph.
This almost did it again.
When he looked up, his eyes were wet.
“Say it again.”
I smiled through tears.
“I don’t want the divorce.”
Dante crossed the distance between us.
Then he stopped.
One inch away.
“Can I kiss you?”
That question mattered more than he knew.
Months earlier, he had failed because he didn’t step away from a kiss.
Now he stood in front of his own wife and waited for permission.
I touched his face.
“Yes.”
His mouth met mine gently.
No desperation.
No possession.
No attempt to claim back what he had lost.
It felt like a first kiss.
Maybe it was.
Because the marriage we had before was gone.
Whatever came next would have to be built from the beginning.
Our twins were born six weeks later.
At 3:12 in the morning, my water broke in bed.
I stared down at the sheets.
Then at Dante.
For almost five seconds, neither of us moved.
“My water broke.”
Dante sat upright.
“What?”
“My water broke.”
He jumped out of bed so quickly he hit his knee against the nightstand.
I would have laughed if another contraction hadn’t arrived.
Dante became pale.
“Hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Now.”
“That’s generally how this works.”
He grabbed my hospital bag.
Then put it down.
Then picked up his phone.
Then put that down.
I stared at him.
“Are you panicking?”
“No.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I don’t panic.”
“Dante.”
He looked at me.
“I am experiencing an appropriate level of concern.”
I laughed so hard it made the contraction worse.
He rushed to my side.
“Don’t laugh.”
“You’re telling me not to laugh while I’m in labor?”
“I take it back.”
At the hospital, I discovered that labor erased any remaining dignity.
I also discovered that Dante Moretti could threaten an entire city but was helpless against childbirth.
He stayed beside me.
Held my hand.
Brought ice.
Counted breaths.
Let me insult him.
When I squeezed his fingers hard enough to hurt, he never pulled away.
Hours later, the room filled with urgency.
Doctors moved around me.
Lights blurred.
Pain became everything.
Dante leaned close.
“I’m here.”
I cried.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I really hate you.”
“I know.”
“This is your fault.”
“That is biologically accurate.”
I screamed something at him that made a nurse laugh.
Then another contraction came.
Dante pressed his forehead against mine.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“Just me.”
For once, Dante wasn’t asking me to enter his world.
He was entering mine.
The first cry filled the room at 11:06.
Our daughter.
Tiny.
Furious.
Perfect.
I sobbed.
Dante completely lost whatever control he had left.
He cried openly.
No turning away.
No pretending.
A nurse placed her against my chest.
I touched her wet dark hair.
“Hi.”
Dante’s hand shook beside mine.
“That’s our daughter.”
“Yes.”
He laughed through tears.
“Our daughter.”
Fourteen minutes later, our son arrived.
His cry was quieter.
But the moment they placed him beside his sister, something inside me broke open with a love too large for one body.
Dante stood beside the bed staring at both babies.
He looked destroyed.
Completely.
Beautifully.
Destroyed.
“Hold him.”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
I smiled weakly.
“Your son.”
“I’ll drop him.”
The nurse laughed.
I had never seen Dante Moretti insulted by a nurse before.
“You won’t drop him.”
Dante looked genuinely uncertain.
I nodded.
“Take him.”
The nurse placed our son in his arms.
Dante froze.
Every muscle.
Every breath.
Our son yawned.
That was all.
A tiny yawn.
Dante lowered his head and started crying again.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.
I heard him.
Neither of us pretended otherwise.
“You learn.”
He looked at me.
I smiled.
“We both do.”
He walked carefully toward the bed.
Then lowered himself into the chair.
Our daughter slept against me.
Our son slept against him.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
The city outside continued without us.
Phones rang.
People waited.
Deals happened.
Problems emerged.
The Moretti empire still existed.
For once, Dante didn’t care.
His phone vibrated on the table.
He looked at it.
Then switched it off.
I watched him.
“That could be important.”
He looked at our son.
Then our daughter.
Then me.
“No.”
He reached for my hand.
“This is important.”
Three months after the twins were born, I returned to Dante’s office for the first time.
I hadn’t planned to.
He had forgotten a folder at home and needed it before a meeting.
The twins were with my mother.
I could have sent a driver.
Instead, I carried it myself.
Maybe part of me knew I needed to enter that room again.
The elevator doors opened.
My stomach tightened.
Nothing had changed.
Same marble.
Same quiet hallway.
Same receptionist who looked startled when she saw me.
“Mrs. Moretti.”
“Is he inside?”
“Yes.”
I walked toward the office.
Every step brought back a memory.
The dinner bag hitting the floor.
Sofia’s perfume.
Dante saying my name.
My own voice telling him the marriage was over.
I stopped outside the door.
For one moment, I couldn’t move.
Then the door opened.
Dante stood there.
He saw my face.
Immediately, his expression changed.
“You okay?”
I nodded.
“I brought your folder.”
He looked at it.
Then back at me.
“You could have sent someone.”
“I know.”
He stepped aside.
I entered.
The desk was the same.
The windows were the same.
But something was missing.
The memory still hurt.
It simply no longer owned the room.
Dante closed the door.
I walked toward the place where I had dropped our anniversary dinner.
“I hated this floor.”
May you like
He stayed behind me.
“I know.
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