Chapter 9 - The Choice
The woodstove popped, sending a spark against the iron grate.
Outside, the blizzard raged, rattling the windowpanes with icy fury, sealing the two of us inside a capsule of suspended time.
I sat looking at the man I had loved for seven years. The billionaire was dead. The corporate warlord had been executed by his own hand. What sat across from me was Dante Moretti from Pilsen—scarred, penniless, humbled, and raw.
"Why did you give it all away?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "You could have fought the Vales. You could have hired the best defense lawyers in the country. You could have kept the empire."
"Because every single dollar in that empire tasted like the perfume on Sofia Vale’s skin," he said, tears welling up again in his exhausted eyes. "Every time I looked at the tower, I saw you standing in that doorway, watching our dinner fall to the floor. I realized that if having Moretti Global meant becoming a man who could hurt you like that, I would rather starve."
I looked at him for a long, quiet minute. Then, I reached across the table, picked up the thin ultrasound folder Marcus hadn't touched, and pulled out the glossy black-and-white printout.
I slid it across the wooden table, stopping it directly in front of Dante's trembling hands.
Dante looked down, confused. His eyes scanned the grayscale static.
Then he stopped.
His breath hitched in his throat. He leaned forward, his hands pressing flat against the table, his knuckles whitening.
"Lena... what... what is this?"
"Look closely," I said softly.
He traced the two small, glowing forms on the paper with a trembling index finger. Dante was brilliant with numbers, brilliant with patterns. It took him three seconds to understand the medical annotations at the bottom of the sheet.
*Gestational Age: 8 Weeks. Multiple Gestation: Twin A / Twin B.*
"Twins," Dante choked out. The word barely had sound. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with absolute, terrifying shock. "You're... you're pregnant?"
"I found out the morning after I left Chicago," I told him, tears finally spilling freely down my face. "While you were fighting the Vales, I was sitting on a bathroom floor in a motel, terrified out of my mind."
Dante dropped his head into his hands, and for the first time in the seven years I had known him, Dante Moretti wept openly, his broad shoulders heaving with uncontrollable sobs. He cried not for the loss of his millions, not for the humiliation of his public fall, but for the sacred life he had nearly abandoned in his blind arrogance.
"I'm sorry," he wept into his palms. "God, Lena, I am so sorry. You were alone. You had to hear their heartbeats alone."
"Yes," I said, letting the weight of that truth sit between us. "I was alone. And I am not telling you this so you can play the hero, Dante. I don't need a provider. I don't need a savior. I need to know if the man who kisses another woman in an office can ever be trusted to protect three hearts instead of one."
Dante raised his head, his face red and wet with grief, but beneath the tears, something ancient and resolute had ignited in his gaze.
May you like
"I will never ask you to trust me with your heart again, Lena," Dante vowed, his voice steadying. "Trust is not something I deserve. But give me the chance to earn the right to guard theirs. Let me sweep the floors. Let me chop the wood. Let me sleep on this porch in the snow. Just do not make me a stranger to my children."
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