Chapter 10 - The Rose on Tenth
At seven o'clock that evening, the rain had completely given way to a clear, crisp early autumn night.
Larkspur Bakery was dark from the outside, except for a warm, amber glow spilling out from the kitchen area in the back.
Damian parked his car across the street.
He was wearing plain black trousers and a soft grey cashmere sweater—no tie, no suit, no security detail lining the pavement.
He crossed the street, unlocked the front door with his master key, and stepped inside.
The bell chimed softly overhead.
Ding.
This time, the sound didn't hurt his brain. It sounded like home.
He walked into the kitchen.
The large stainless-steel prep table had been covered with a clean, white linen tablecloth. In the center sat two small beeswax candles flickering inside glass holders, casting warm light over two simple white porcelain plates.
Between the plates sat a single glass of water and a square of cream-colored card stock.
Damian walked up to the table.
He picked up the square of card stock.
There was no raspberry stain this time. No rushed, desperate writing.
Printed on the linen paper in fine, elegant calligraphy were three words:
Yes, Damian. Always.
Damian looked up.
Nora stepped out from the back pantry.
She was wearing a simple, knee-length dark green dress—not the torn silk evening gown from the night before, but a soft wool dress that hugged her waist and matched the deep emerald of her eyes. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves, and her lower lip bore only a tiny, faint pink mark where the cut had begun to heal.
She walked up to him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her dress.
“You’re late, Mr. Vale,” she said softly, a spark of mischievous light dancing in her eyes.
“Traffic on Tenth was terrible,” Damian replied, his voice thick with emotion.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box he had carried through the swamp, through the blood, and through the shadows of his past.
He opened it.
Inside sat a brilliant three-carat oval-cut diamond set in a simple, delicate platinum band that reflected the yellow candlelight like a captured star.
He didn't drop to one knee. He didn't make a speech about his business, his empire, or his power.
He simply took her hand, slid the ring onto her finger, and pulled her close until her heart was beating directly against his own.
“I love you, Nora,” Damian whispered into her hair.
Nora looked up, reaching her hands up to frame his sharp, handsome jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.
“I know,” she whispered back. “Now kiss me before the lemon tarts get cold.”
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Outside, the city of New York moved on—its lights flashing, its sirens wailing, its endless rivers of noise and violence flowing through the grid of concrete and steel.
But inside the small bakery on Tenth Street, behind a locked glass door smelling of flour and sweet butter, Damian Vale held his wife in the light, and for the first time in thirty-eight years, he forgot how to be afraid.
