Chapter 13 - The Second Proposal
Alexander moved back home in June.
Into the guest room.
Paige found this hysterical.
“You’re making your husband date you while living across the hallway?”
“Yes.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He stayed there four months.
Not because I punished him.
Because rebuilding intimacy required more than desire.
We cooked together.
Badly.
We argued about paint colors.
We attended couples therapy.
We talked about the baby.
That was hardest.
One Sunday, Alexander asked whether I had named the child privately.
I had.
“June.”
He began crying.
“Why June?”
“Because that was when I found out.”
He nodded.
“June Grant.”
I had never allowed myself to say the full name.
Hearing him say it broke something open.
We planted a magnolia tree behind the house.
For June.
No cameras.
No family.
Just us.
By autumn, North & Rowan had become more successful than I expected. Maya and I secured a contract to redesign three historic hotels.
At the celebration, Alexander stood at the back.
He did not introduce himself as my husband.
He introduced himself as “Erin’s plus-one.”
I loved him for it.
Then, one year after the night of thirty-seven charges, February eighteenth arrived again.
Alexander said nothing about plans.
No hints.
No extravagant arrangements.
At six, I came downstairs and found him cooking.
Or attempting to.
Smoke filled half the kitchen.
“What happened?”
“The steak and I disagreed.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
He had recreated my anniversary dinner.
Badly.
Potatoes.
Steak.
Burgundy.
Two ivory candles.
And beside my wineglass sat a small silver box.
My heart stopped.
“Alexander.”
“Open it.”
Inside was not a diamond.
Not jewelry.
The second cuff link from his grandfather’s pair.
The first—the one I restored—was already in Alexander’s shirt cuff.
“This belonged to my grandmother,” he explained. “Grandfather had it converted for her after their twentieth anniversary.”
I touched the blue enamel.
“He said marriage wasn’t supposed to be matching pieces.”
I smiled.
“What was it supposed to be?”
“Two things with their own purpose that still belonged together.”
He looked nervous.
Alexander Grant.
Nervous.
Then he knelt.
I covered my mouth.
“We’re already married.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Asking properly.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Erin Claire Rowan Grant.”
I laughed through tears. “That is an excessive number of names.”
“I rehearsed this.”
“Sorry.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“The first time I asked you to marry me, I knew what I wanted but didn’t give you everything you needed to choose freely. So I’m asking again when there is no trust deadline, no inheritance condition, no family expectation, and no consequence if you say no.”
My hands trembled.
“I have nothing to offer you that you cannot buy yourself.”
I thought of the black card.
The red coat.
The sapphire ring.
“But if you want it, I can offer you the truth. Every day. Even when it makes me look terrible.”
I laughed softly.
“That could happen often.”
“Statistically, yes.”
He took my hand.
“I can offer you attention. Not because you demand it. Because you deserve it. I can offer you a marriage where silence is never mistaken for consent.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
“And if you say no, I will still spend the rest of my life grateful that you taught me love isn’t ownership.”
He did not ask Will you marry me?
Instead he asked:
“Would you choose me now?”
I looked at the man kneeling before me.
Not the billionaire.
Not the heir.
Not the husband who abandoned me at a table.
The man who had spent a year learning how much damage certainty could do.
“Yes.”
His eyes closed.
I laughed.
“Alexander.”
He looked up.
“Yes.”
I touched his face.
“But you’re still sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
May you like
He stared at me.
Then I kissed him.
