Tell Them Yourself

"Yes," Roman said.

I looked at him.

"At the time, yes. I probably would have come. I would have told myself I needed to see that you were safe."

I got up from the sofa.

He rose too, then stayed where he was when I turned toward him.

"You had the photograph. You had my messages."

"I know."

"You wanted to see me. That's different."

"Yes."

The honesty mattered. So did the fact that I had spent months trusting a promise he had privately interpreted until it suited him.

"You need to go," I said.

He picked up his coat. At the door, he turned back.

"I'll give you the records. Everything I looked at. And the report showing what was disabled."

"Send them to my attorney too."

His jaw tightened, but he agreed.

After he left, I washed the bowl he'd used. I didn't need to. It was already clean. I stood at the sink with warm water running over my hands because I couldn't bear to sit on the sofa again.

The next morning, I told him I wasn't ready for the weekend visit we'd discussed.

He called immediately.

"Erin, I didn't find you. I didn't act on it."

"You told me because keeping it secret would repeat the problem. Don't now ask me to pretend the truth doesn't matter."

He went quiet.

"Do you regret telling me?" I asked.

"Right now I regret giving you something I had to tell."

That answer stopped me.

"Then keep working on that part."

He did not ask again about the weekend.

For a while, our meetings returned to the clinic. He fed Sophie, changed her, asked about her appointments. Some afternoons I stayed. Others I walked to a café and read work documents while he learned how long forty minutes with a fussy baby could feel.

He kept coming even when I offered him no closeness at all.

The documents arrived. They showed the two days of searches and the removal of his access. He also changed the gate instructions at the house. I didn't know whether a new policy could overcome years of everyone assuming his wishes came first.

I noticed that he stopped presenting every change as a reason I should return.

In May, Laya asked to meet me.

She arrived at the café in jeans and a loose sweater, wedding ring on her hand. She was pregnant. The sight startled me, though the timing itself wasn't mysterious.

"Congratulations," I said.

"Thank you."

We ordered, then waited until the server left.

"I don't want to ask you to forgive me," she said. "I want to apologize for something I left out before."

I sat back.

"I knew what the rumors did to you. I watched you become quieter at events, and I liked that people still thought I had power over Roman."

My fingers tightened around the cup.

"You could have stopped it with one sentence."

"Yes."

"So could he."

"Yes."

She didn't explain it away with Vittorio or the trust. For once, none of the Moretti family's arrangements occupied the space where a simple choice belonged.

"I hope your baby is healthy," I said when we stood.

Her eyes filled.

We did not embrace. I didn't leave wanting to be her friend. I left without needing another conversation.

That evening, Roman asked how the meeting had gone.

I told him the parts that concerned us. He listened without contacting Laya to compare versions.

A month later, he invited me to a foundation event.

"I don't want to spend an evening having people inspect my marriage," I said.

"Neither do I."

"You managed it very well before."

He accepted that without smiling.

"I want you beside me. But I understand if you don't want to come."

I refused. Then, two days later, I changed my mind.

I chose my own dress. Green, with a low back and sleeves that made me feel like someone besides an exhausted mother. Jenna watched Sophie. I arrived separately.

Roman waited at the bottom of the museum stairs.

When he saw me, he forgot to hide his reaction. His gaze moved over my face, then down the dress and back up with an expression that warmed my skin.

"You look beautiful."

"I know. It took an unreasonable amount of effort."

He smiled. "Would you like my arm?"

I took it.

Inside, people stared with the restrained interest of people pretending they didn't stare. Roman introduced me to someone I hadn't met as his wife, then asked me to explain the foundation project instead of doing it himself.

For half an hour, I enjoyed myself.

Then Marlene Russo approached with her husband.

"Erin. How lovely. I suppose all that nonsense with Laya has finally cleared itself up."

Roman's arm tensed beneath my hand.

"It didn't clear itself up," I said. "People chose to repeat things they hadn't checked."

Her smile faltered.

"Surely you know nobody meant any harm."

"I know you heard your own jokes."

Her husband looked toward Roman, waiting for a rescue that didn't come.

"It was a misunderstanding," Marlene said.

Roman spoke then.

"There was no affair. There was a matter involving my father's estate that I kept from Erin. I allowed people to speculate and left her to deal with it. That was my failure. It wasn't harmless."

I looked at him.

He was watching Marlene, his voice steady. He hadn't threatened anyone. He had said something that cost him more: the truth about himself, in a room where he usually controlled which truths existed.

Marlene apologized. I accepted the words without pretending the evening required instant reconciliation.

We walked away.

In the quiet hallway outside the ballroom, Roman let out a breath.

"I should have done that a year ago."

"Yes."

"I can't fix when I did it."

"No."

He turned toward me. "Did you have a good evening before that?"

I realized he wasn't asking whether he'd earned anything.

"I did."

He smiled, and I put my hand back in his.

At my car, I said, "I'd like to bring Sophie home for a weekend. Just a weekend."

His fingers closed carefully around mine.

"Tell me what you need me to prepare."

For the first time, I believed that question could have an answer he would actually hear.