Chapter 8 - THE DAY ELIAS ASKED ME FOR ONE LAST CHANCE
Three months later, Elias asked me to lunch.
By then, the world looked different.
Leonard Voss had been indicted on twenty-three federal counts.
Claudia entered witness protection after agreeing to testify.
My mother pleaded guilty to conspiracy and financial fraud.
Mercer Group survived because Elias rebuilt it instead of pretending nothing had happened.
He sold unnecessary assets.
Replaced half the board.
Promoted Marcus Reed to chief operating officer.
Stopped chasing every deal that came with an impressive name.
According to business reporters, Elias had become “more disciplined.”
I knew better.
He had become embarrassed enough to finally become honest.
We met at a small seafood restaurant.
No photographers.
No private room.
Elias arrived early.
He smiled when I sat down.
“You cut your hair.”
“You noticed.”
“I notice a lot now.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
He laughed.
There was less arrogance in him.
More sadness.
Maybe both were necessary.
“How are you?”
“Good.”
“And Damiano?”
There it was.
“Good.”
Elias nodded.
His eyes dropped briefly.
“I saw the photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“The gala.”
Oh.
Damiano and I had attended a museum fundraiser.
He had placed his hand at the small of my back.
Some photographer captured me laughing at something he said.
The image went everywhere.
MAFIA PRINCESS RETURNS TO CHARLESTON SOCIETY.
I hated the headline.
I loved the photograph.
“You looked happy,” Elias said.
“I was.”
He nodded.
The waiter brought water.
Then Elias placed a folder between us.
My stomach tightened.
“No more contracts.”
He smiled sadly.
“Not divorce papers.”
“What?”
“Your loan.”
I opened it.
Mercer Group had repaid half of the Moretti financing early.
Impressive.
“You could have sent this electronically.”
“I wanted to see you.”
I closed the folder.
“Why?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because I need to ask you once.”
I knew.
“No.”
“I haven't asked yet.”
“I know what you're asking.”
“Then let me say it.”
I almost left.
Then remembered something.
Four years of marriage deserved one honest ending.
“Okay.”
Elias took a breath.
“I love you.”
My chest hurt.
“I loved you badly.”
His voice shook.
“I loved the peace you gave me but resented you for not helping me perform success.”
He looked down.
“I wanted someone who made other people envy me.”
“Claudia.”
“Yes.”
“And when I got her, I realized envy is a terrible thing to come home to.”
I said nothing.
“I should have asked why you were quiet.”
“Yes.”
“I should have listened when you did speak.”
“Yes.”
“I should have known the woman who never cared about my money probably had a reason she wasn't impressed by it.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
He smiled too.
Then his eyes filled.
“I want another chance.”
There it was.
No ambiguity.
“Not because you're a Moretti.”
“I believe you.”
“Not because Damiano wants you.”
“I believe that too.”
“I want another chance because I finally know what I had.”
I looked at the man I once thought I would grow old beside.
Part of me loved him.
Maybe some part always would.
But love changes shape.
Some loves become marriages.
Some become grief.
Some become lessons.
Some become gratitude for what existed before it broke.
“I forgive you.”
Elias stopped.
The words surprised him.
They surprised me too.
“I forgive you for Claudia.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“For the divorce.”
He swallowed.
“For making me feel invisible.”
I took a breath.
“But I'm not coming back.”
His face crumpled slightly.
“Because of Damiano?”
“No.”
That mattered.
“Then why?”
“Because the woman who married you doesn't exist anymore.”
He looked down.
“I could love who you are now.”
“Maybe.”
“You don't believe me?”
“I do.”
“Then—”
“But I don't want to rebuild my life around proving whether you can.”
Silence.
He nodded slowly.
I continued.
“You deserve someone you choose because you see her.”
My voice softened.
“And I deserve the same.”
He wiped his face.
“I did see you.”
“Too late.”
He nodded.
“Too late.”
We finished lunch.
Not comfortably.
But kindly.
At the door, Elias hugged me.
“Is he good to you?”
“Yes.”
“He better be.”
I laughed.
“Are you threatening Damiano Moretti?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Smart.”
Elias smiled.
Then looked serious again.
“Serena.”
“Yes?”
“I hope he knows you're terrible at pretending not to care.”
I smiled.
“He knows.”
“And you hate orchids.”
“Yes.”
“And you need the left side of the bed.”
“Apparently this is becoming a list.”
“And when you're scared, you clean.”
I stopped.
Elias smiled sadly.
“I did know things.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Yes.”
“That makes it worse.”
“A little.”
He nodded.
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
That was goodbye.
Real goodbye.
Not angry.
Not unfinished.
I returned to the Moretti estate at sunset.
Damiano was in the kitchen.
Cooking.
Poorly.
Smoke filled half the room.
Rosa stood near the stove looking offended on behalf of Italy.
“What happened?”
Damiano pointed at a pan.
“It became aggressive.”
Rosa snapped:
“You burned garlic.”
“I said what I said.”
I laughed.
Damiano looked at me.
“How was lunch?”
“Good.”
His expression didn't change.
“Did he ask?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
Damiano nodded.
Then returned to destroying dinner.
I stared at him.
“That's it?”
He looked over.
“What?”
“No celebration?”
“Do you want one?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“No question about whether I still love him?”
His eyes met mine.
“Do you?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
His face remained calm.
“In some way.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I stared.
“You're impossible.”
He turned off the burner.
“Serena, you loved him for four years. If you could stop caring in three months, I'd wonder whether you ever loved him.”
I swallowed.
“And that doesn't bother you?”
“Of course it does.”
That made me laugh.
“Thank God.”
He walked closer.
“But being bothered isn't the same as making you responsible for fixing it.”
I kissed him.
Rosa groaned.
“Not near the burned garlic.”
We both laughed.
That night, Damiano and I sat on the veranda.
No bodyguards nearby.
No business.
No ghosts.
He took my hand.
“Come to New York with me next week.”
“Business?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
“My house.”
I looked at him.
“You want me to see your house?”
“Yes.”
“That's suspiciously domestic.”
“I own towels.”
“Impressive.”
“Some even match.”
I laughed.
Then he became serious.
“I don't want you moving in.”
“Good.”
“I don't want anything.”
“Nothing?”
“I want to show you my life.”
He squeezed my hand.
“And then you decide whether you want any part of it.”
Choice.
Always.
May you like
This time, the word didn't frighten me.
It felt like freedom.
