Chapter 7 - The Winter Truce
I stood in the warm threshold, looking down at my kneeling husband for nearly a full minute without speaking.
The bitter, biting wind swept across the porch, swirling snow against his bare hands and the cuffs of his trousers. He didn't shiver. He didn't reach for the door handle. He simply knelt there, weeping into his palms like a man who had finally reached the end of a long, torturous pilgrimage.
“Get inside, Vincent,” I said, unhooking the brass chain and stepping back into the warm foyer. “Before you catch pneumonia on my porch.”
He didn't rush in. He stood up slowly, awkwardly, as if terrified that a sudden movement might cause me to slam the door in his face.
He stepped over the threshold, kicking the snow from his boots, and closed the heavy oak door behind him with exaggerated care.
The warmth of the cabin hit him, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of cedar, tea, and vanilla—the exact scent that had defined our home before his ambition poisoned it.
“Sit by the fire,” I instructed, keeping a solid four paces between us as I walked toward the open kitchen.
Vincent walked stiffly toward the stone hearth, sitting down on the edge of the leather ottoman. He rubbed his numb, red hands together, his eyes never leaving my silhouette as I poured hot water from the kettle into a ceramic mug.
I carried the mug over, setting it on the side table beside him.
“Drink it,” I said. “It’s black tea with lemon and honey. No chestnuts.”
Vincent flinched as if I had driven a needle into an open wound.
He picked up the mug with trembling fingers, taking a small sip, his gaze fixed on my face with an agonizing hunger.
“You look beautiful, Claire,” he whispered, his voice cracked and raw. “You look… so healthy. Your cheeks have color again.”
“Because I’m sleeping at night, Vincent,” I replied, sitting down in the rocking chair across from him, crossing my hands over the peak of my belly. “Because I don't spend six hours a day wondering which woman’s emergency is more important than my marriage.”
Vincent set the mug down on the table, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees, dropping his head into his hands.
“There are no emergencies anymore, Claire,” he said, his voice muffled by his palms. “I dissolved the downtown logistics partnership three weeks ago. I stepped down from the executive board of the consortium. My brother Dominic is running the operations now.”
I blinked, genuinely stunned.
Vincent Moretti, the man who had sacrificed our anniversaries, our dinners, and our intimacy on the altar of his ruthless empire, had walked away from the throne?
“Why would you do that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
May you like
Vincent lifted his head. His eyes were clear, bright with unshed tears, and completely stripped of corporate arrogance.
“Because when I stood in that empty closet in Lake Forest,” Vincent said, his voice trembling with absolute conviction, “I realized that I had spent five years conquering an entire city, only to lose the only empire that actually mattered.”
