She came home.
But something was different.
Damien felt it the moment they walked through the door. The way she held herself. The way she looked at him. The way she moved through the penthouse like she was visiting a place she used to live.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
She turned to face him.
Her eyes were tired.
"I'm not lying. I'm just... processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that I spent the night in a hotel room. Alone. Because I couldn't breathe in here."
"You could have told me."
"I tried."
"When?"
"Every day for the past month." She walked to the window. Looked out at the city. "I've been telling you in a hundred different ways. You just didn't want to hear it."
---
He walked to her.
Stood beside her.
"I'm listening now."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
She turned to face him.
"Then listen to this." She put her hand on her stomach. "I love you. I love our daughter. I love the life we've built. But I'm suffocating."
"Suffocating how?"
"Everywhere I go, your people are watching. Every time I leave the penthouse, someone reports back to you. Every phone call. Every text. Every time I stop for coffee."
"That's for your protection."
"No." She shook her head. "That's for your control. There's a difference."
"It's the same thing."
"It's not." She stepped closer. "Protection is keeping me safe. Control is keeping me yours."
"You are mine."
"I know." She touched his face. "But I'm also my own. And I need you to remember that."
---
He was quiet for a long moment.
The city hummed below them.
Somewhere in the building, a door opened and closed.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want to be able to leave the penthouse without an escort."
"That's not safe."
"I want to be able to see my friends without your approval."
"Some of your friends are liabilities."
"I want to be able to breathe without you monitoring every breath."
"Christabel—"
"I want to feel like myself again." Her voice cracked. "Not the mother of your child. Not the woman you're protecting. Not the target of your enemies. Myself."
"You are yourself."
"I'm a version of myself." She stepped back. "The version that fits into your life. The version that doesn't complain. The version that smiles and nods and does what she's told."
"You've never done what you're told."
"Maybe that's the problem." She looked at him. "Maybe I've been doing what you want for so long that I forgot what I want."
---
He felt it then.
The crack.
Not in their relationship. In her.
She was pulling away. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Slowly. The way a flower closes at night.
"What do you want?" he asked again.
She was quiet for a moment.
"I want to go back to work."
"Work?"
"My company. The one I had before you. I want to build something that's mine."
"You have Verona."
"Verona is ours." She looked at him. "I want something that's just mine."
---
He didn't know what to say.
She had never asked for anything like this before. Never wanted anything that wasn't connected to him. Never needed anything outside the world they'd built together.
"Why now?" he asked.
"Because I'm about to become a mother." She put her hand on her stomach. "And I need to know that I'm still me. Not just her mother. Not just your wife. Me."
"You're not my wife."
The words came out before he could stop them.
She stared at him.
"What?"
"You're not my wife." He stepped closer. "You're my partner. My equal. The mother of my child. But not my wife."
"Why not?"
"Because I never asked you."
---
The silence that followed was deafening.
Christabel's hand dropped from her stomach.
"You never asked me," she repeated.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I was afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of you saying no." He touched her face. "Of you realizing that you deserve better. Of you leaving."
"I'm not going to leave."
"You almost did last night."
"I came back."
"Because I came to get you."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Ask me," she said.
"What?"
"Ask me to marry you."
---
He knelt.
Right there. In the middle of the living room. The most powerful man in the city on his knees in front of the woman who had changed everything.
"Christabel Vance," he said. "Will you marry me?"
She looked down at him.
Her eyes were wet.
"I don't have a ring," he said. "I didn't plan this. I didn't—"
"Yes."
He stopped.
"What?"
"Yes, Damien. I'll marry you."
---
He stood.
Pulled her into his arms.
Kissed her.
She kissed him back.
And for a moment—a single, perfect moment—the crack between them seemed to heal.
---
But cracks didn't heal.
They just waited.
And Christabel was very, very good at waiting.