Chapter 13 - The First Time I Chose Myself|
My apartment was small enough that I could touch the kitchen counter from the living room.
The floors creaked.
The refrigerator hummed.
And the bathroom window refused to close all the way.
I loved it.
It wasn't glamorous.
It didn't have chandeliers or marble staircases.
There were no guards outside.
No cooks preparing breakfast.
No expensive paintings watching me from the walls.
But the lease had my name on it.
Every piece of furniture had been chosen by me.
And when I locked the front door at night, the key belonged to nobody else.
For the first time in twenty-three years, I had a home I didn't have to earn by serving someone.
Vincent had respected my request for space.
He sent no surprise gifts.
He didn't appear outside my apartment.
He didn't ask Gabriel to report where I went.
He sent one message on the evening I moved in.
I hope your new home brings you peace.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then typed.
Thank you for letting me choose.
His response came a minute later.
You never needed my permission. I should have understood that sooner.
I cried after reading it.
Not because I regretted leaving.
Because I was finally learning that love and freedom didn't have to be enemies.
Over the following months, I started working at a community organization that helped women facing financial coercion and exploitation.
At first, I volunteered.
Then the director offered me a paid position.
I helped clients complete paperwork, prepare job applications, and find safe housing.
I was still cleaning sometimes.
But only when I chose to.
And for the first time, my work wasn't being used to support my father's gambling.
I started saving money.
I took evening classes.
And I began building a future that belonged entirely to me.
Meanwhile, Vincent's world was changing.
The investigations into Lorenzo and Bellamy had expanded.
Bellamy eventually surrendered through his attorney and faced charges related to the unlawful treatment and concealment of medical information.
Lorenzo faced separate charges involving threats, fraud, unlawful surveillance, and the warehouse incident.
The authorities also reopened the investigation into Isabella Moretti's death.
Carlo had died years earlier and could no longer be prosecuted.
But the evidence established that his account of the crash had been false and that he had participated in concealing important information afterward.
Vincent's own companies were placed under intense scrutiny.
He cooperated with investigators concerning the criminal activities linked to the organization he had led.
Some of his assets were frozen.
Several associates were charged.
And Vincent acknowledged that even the wrongs committed against him did not erase the harm caused under his leadership.
The public called it the fall of the Moretti empire.
I thought of it differently.
A man was finally choosing what kind of person he wanted to become.
One rainy afternoon, I received a message from Dr. Hart.
Vincent has completed another hearing assessment. He asked me to tell you only if you wanted to know.
My heart began pounding.
I called her.
"How is he?"
"He's doing well medically. The recent injury has healed."
"And his hearing?"
"His evaluations suggest he may benefit from cochlear implantation, though the outcome is uncertain. He's considering the next steps."
I sat down slowly.
"Is he excited?"
Dr. Hart paused.
"I think he's hopeful. And frightened."
I knew exactly why.
Hope was dangerous when you'd spent years having it taken away.
"Can I see him?"
"That's his decision, and yours."
I ended the call.
For nearly an hour, I sat beside my apartment window.
Then I opened Vincent's messages.
I typed.
Would you like to have coffee?
His reply came almost immediately.
More than you know.
We met at a quiet café overlooking the Chicago River.
Vincent arrived wearing dark jeans and a black sweater.
No bodyguards stood beside him.
No expensive entourage followed.
He looked thinner.
More peaceful.
And somehow younger.
When he saw me, he smiled.
I stood.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he signed.
Hello, beautiful.
I laughed.
"You've been practicing."
He nodded.
Every day.
We sat near the window.
He told me about his treatment plans, using sign language, typed messages, and speechreading as needed.
I told him about my new job.
My apartment.
My evening classes.
He listened with his eyes, giving me the kind of attention I'd never received from anyone else.
Then I asked the question that had been living inside my heart for months.
"Are you happy?"
He considered it carefully.
Then typed.
I'm learning how.
I smiled.
"Me too."
We talked for nearly three hours.
There were no promises.
No dramatic declarations.
No pressure to return to the mansion.
Just two people discovering who they were when fear no longer controlled every decision.
As we stood to leave, Vincent touched my hand.
I looked at him.
He signed slowly.
May I kiss you?
My heart nearly stopped.
For a moment, I remembered our wedding.
The borrowed white dress.
My father's laughter.
The frightened girl who had believed she was worth fifty dollars.
Then I looked at the man standing before me.
He wasn't asking because we were married.
He wasn't claiming me.
He was asking.
And I had the power to answer.
I smiled.
"Yes."
He kissed me gently.
For one beautiful moment, the noise of the city seemed to fade.
When we pulled apart, he pressed his forehead against mine.
Then signed.
I missed you.
Tears filled my eyes.
"I missed you too."
That evening, Vincent walked me to my apartment building.
He stopped at the entrance.
Didn't invite himself inside.
Didn't ask me to move back.
He simply waited while I found my keys.
Before I entered, I turned.
"Vincent?"
He looked at me.
"I want to try something."
His eyebrows lifted.
I smiled nervously.
"Dating."
He stared at me.
"Real dating," I continued. "Dinner. Movies. Bad coffee. Arguments about what to watch on television. All the normal things we never got to have."
Vincent's face changed.
He looked almost afraid to believe me.
Then he signed.
Are you sure?
I nodded.
"For the first time in my life, I'm completely sure about something."
He smiled.
And that was how our real love story began.
Not with a forced wedding.
Not with fifty dollars.
May you like
Not with a mansion full of secrets.
But with two people standing outside a small apartment building, choosing each other freely.
