Chapter 10 - The Sovereign of the House
The mirror flared with blinding blue-white light.
A sharp, electric shock rippled through our fingers, traveling up our arms and exploding behind our eyes. The sound of shattering crystal filled the room once more, drowning out the city, the time, the space, and the silence.
And then—darkness.
Gasp.
I bolted upright, drawing a massive, ragged breath into my lungs.
The air smelled of cedarwood, leather, and expensive cologne.
My shoulders were broad. My chest was heavy. The silk sheets beneath me were dark gray, not rose pink.
I looked down at my hands. Large, calloused, scarred knuckles—my hands.
I threw off the covers, scrambled out of bed, and rushed into the master bathroom. I flipped on the overhead lights and stared into the large vanity mirror.
Staring back at me was my own face. Dark hair, sharp jawline, intense amber-brown eyes.
I was Dante Moretti again.
Panic seized me. Did it work? Did she go back too?
I sprinted out of the master suite, my bare feet pounding against the hardwood floor of the penthouse, and rushed down the hallway toward the guest wing.
I threw open the door to Elena’s bedroom.
The room was bathed in the soft morning light of Friday, October 17.
And sitting on the edge of the rose silk bed, wearing her cream-colored silk nightgown, with chestnut hair falling over her shoulders, was Elena.
She blinked twice, shaking her head as if waking from a very long, very vivid dream. She looked down at her small hands, flexing her fingers, and then slowly raised her hazel eyes to meet mine in the doorway.
Neither of us spoke for a long moment.
Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across Elena’s face.
"You're back," she said softly, her voice melodic and entirely her own.
"I'm back," I replied, walking slowly into the room.
I stopped a few feet away from her, feeling a humility and a depth of emotion that no board meeting or corporate victory had ever given me. I looked at her—really looked at her—not as an extension of my life, not as a decorative fixture of my penthouse, but as an equal, a partner, and a force of nature far more powerful than any empire I had ever built.
I reached out, my large hand trembling slightly, and gently touched her cheek.
"The divorce papers," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I burned them this morning."
Elena’s eyes softened, a quiet understanding passing between us that needed no further explanation.
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"Good," she said, leaning her cheek into my palm. "Because I was never going to let you go that easily anyway."
I pulled her into my arms, holding my wife close against my chest, knowing that while the empire outside these glass walls belonged to Dante Moretti, the heart of the house belonged to both of us.
