Chapter 8
The first year of Clara’s life taught us both that parenting is an exercise in radical humility. No board meeting,
no corporate negotiation, and no legal strategy prepares you for a Tuesday afternoon where an infant decides that
sleep is a personal insult and colic is an Olympic sport.
Dorian adapted by turning fatherhood into an administrative campaign. He read pediatric journals like they
were hostile takeover target analyses. He color-coded vaccination schedules in Excel. When I found his spreadsheet
titled Clara_Cross_Milestones_v4.xlsx on our shared home server, I laughed so hard I woke the baby.
“It’s efficient,” he protested from the doorway of the nursery, looking slightly defensive in his charcoal
shirtsleeves.
“It’s terrifying,” I said, bouncing a fussy Clara against my shoulder. “She’s seven months old, Dorian. She
doesn’t care about pivot tables.”
“She might appreciate the organizational rigor later in life.”
“If she’s anything like you, she’ll rebel by becoming an avant-garde painter who lives in a yurt.”
A shadow of genuine alarm crossed his face before he caught himself. “Eleanor paints.”
“Exactly. It skips a generation.”
He walked over, his movements deliberate and unhurried—a rhythm we had painstakingly built over months of
therapy and honest evenings. He gently took Clara from my arms. Instantly, her crying subsided into a soft,
hiccuping sigh. She rested her tiny cheek against his chest, her small fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Dorian looked down at her with an expression so nakedly tender it still caught me off guard. The guarded,
armored executive who had once handed me divorce papers to protect me from ghosts had transformed into a man
who spent his evenings holding an infant while reading bedtime stories about quantum physics in a hushed, solemn
whisper.
“She likes the baritone,” he murmured.
“She likes that you stop worrying when you hold her,” I replied quietly.
He looked up, meeting my eyes across the dim, starlit nursery. “I still worry.”
“About what? The stock market? Cross Holdings?”
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“About us. About failing.”
I stepped closer, resting my hand against his arm. Beneath the cotton shirt, his muscles were steady. “Failing
how?”
“Falling back into old patterns. Becoming silent when things get difficult. Letting fear make decisions for me.”
“You’re still in therapy, right?”
“Thursdays at five.”
“Then you have an entire hour every week to dissect your existential dread. The rest of the time, you’re allowed
to just be a father.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “An un-optimized father.”
“The absolute worst kind,” I agreed.
* * *
Spring arrived in Chicago with that fierce, sudden thaw that makes everyone forget the brutal months of lake-
effect snow. The city woke up, and with it came the unavoidable demands of the world we had temporarily stepped
away from.
Cross Holdings was holding its annual shareholder summit at the Drake Hotel. As chairman, Dorian was
required to attend, speak, and face the financial press. For months, he had successfully delegated day-to-day
operations to his newly appointed CEO, a pragmatic woman named Sarah Lindqvist who had zero patience for
corporate theater.
When Dorian asked me to accompany him to the gala dinner following the summit, I hesitated.
“You don’t have to,” he said immediately, reading my expression with that newly acquired attentiveness.
“Caleb can drive me, or I can go alone. You can stay home with Clara.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
“Then why the hesitation?”
“Because walking into a room full of people who spent six months speculating about our divorce and
wondering why you suddenly stepped down as CEO sounds approximately as appealing as a root canal.”
He was quiet for a moment. “They won’t say anything to you.”
“They won’t have to. Their polite smiles will do all the heavy lifting.”
Dorian walked over, taking my hands in his. His thumbs brushed my knuckles. “When I stepped down, the
board asked why. Do you know what I told them?”
“That you wanted more time for your spreadsheets?”
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“I told them I had spent years building a fortress because I was terrified of losing what mattered, and that I
finally realized a fortress only keeps you trapped inside with your own mistakes.”
I looked at him, touched by the raw honesty in his voice. “You said that to the board of Cross Holdings?”
“Word for word. Half of them looked like they were having a mild stroke. The other half respected the candor.”
“And Sarah?”
“Sarah told me it was about time I hired someone competent.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “All right. I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to force yourself.”
“I’m not forcing myself. I’m choosing to stand beside my husband. There’s a difference.”
His eyes darkened with something deep and steady. “Thank you.”
* * *
The Drake Hotel ballroom was glittering under chandeliers that had witnessed a century of Chicago’s triumphs
and scandals. When Dorian and I entered, the hum of polite conversation dipped for a fraction of a second before
smoothly resuming. People noticed everything: my emerald-silk dress, Dorian’s custom-tailored tuxedo, the subtle
way he kept his hand lightly guiding the small of my back without hovering.
We hadn’t been inside five minutes before Harrison Vance, a senior board member whose family had held
shares in Cross Holdings since the Eisenhower administration, intercepted us.
“Dorian. Excellent speech today. Sharp, forward-looking.” Harrison’s eyes flicked toward me with practiced
warmth. “Alina. Wonderful to see you out. How is the little one?”
“Clara is thriving, Harrison,” I replied, keeping my smile cool and polite. “She recently mastered the art of
screaming until she gets her way. We’re considering grooming her for executive management.”
Harrison chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Sounds like a natural Cross.”
Dorian’s expression hardened just slightly—not enough for a stranger to notice, but enough for me. Before he
could deliver a chilling corporate rebuff, I placed my hand over his sleeve.
“She takes after her grandmother Eleanor,” I said smoothly. “Independent, articulate, and completely
unimpressed by corporate politics.”
Harrison blinked, momentarily thrown off script. “Ah. Yes. Eleanor has always marched to her own drummer.”
“She’s currently taking watercolor classes in Madison with her brother,” Dorian added, his voice completely
level. “They’re exhibiting at a local community center next month. I can send you an invitation if you’re interested
in regional landscapes.”
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The sheer absurdity of Dorian Cross inviting a ruthless board member to an amateur art show in Wisconsin
rendered Harrison momentarily speechless.
“I... well, my schedule is rather full, but thank you,” Harrison stammered.
“Of course,” Dorian said smoothly. “Enjoy the evening, Harrison.”
As the older man drifted away to find someone less conversational, I looked up at my husband. “Did you just
weaponize your uncle’s art show?”
“I believe I simply shared family news.”
“That was malicious and delightful.”
“I learned it from you.”
“You absolutely did not. My malice is far more subtle.”
“We can compare techniques later. Right now, someone important wants to speak with you.”
I followed his gaze. Standing near the tall arched windows overlooking Lake Michigan was Sarah Lindqvist,
holding a glass of sparkling water and watching us with an amused, intelligent expression.
We walked over. Sarah was in her late forties, sharp-featured, with silver-streaked dark hair and eyes that
missed nothing.
“Alina,” Sarah said, extending a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, mostly from Dorian, which means I had
to filter out about fifty percent of the corporate anxiety.”
“Did he sound anxious?” I asked, smiling.
“He sounded like a man who realized he had nearly lost everything and didn’t know how to code a fix for it.”
Sarah turned to Dorian. “Good evening, Chairman Cross. Your speech was surprisingly human.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I’m aiming for mediocrity in my emotional reserve.”
“You have a long way to go. You still stand like you’re guarding a vault.”
I laughed. “See? I’m not the only one who notices.”
We spent the next hour moving through the ballroom. For the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider peeking
into Dorian’s world, nor did I feel like a prop meant to project marital stability. I was simply there, as myself,
May you like
standing beside a man who was finally learning how to let the walls down.
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