Chapter 7 - A Marriage We Finally Chose
Six months later, Sophia moved into her own apartment.
Not because we separated.
Because I insisted.
“You need a place that's yours.”
She looked at me.
“What about us?”
“We'll figure that out.”
She smiled.
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is.”
She laughed.
It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
We started dating.
Our own way.
No families.
No treaties.
No photographers.
No contracts.
Just coffee.
Walks.
Arguments about movies.
Late-night conversations.
She learned I hated cilantro.
I learned she couldn't sleep during thunderstorms.
She learned I never slept deeply.
I learned she hummed when she was nervous.
We built something slowly.
One evening, she asked,
“Do you still regret marrying me?”
I looked at her.
“No.”
“Even knowing everything?”
“Especially knowing everything.”
She smiled.
“I used to think love meant surrender.”
“What do you think now?”
“Choosing someone every day.”
I reached for her hand.
“Then choose me.”
She looked at me.
“I already did.”
It wasn't a proposal.
Not yet.
But it was more meaningful than any wedding vow we'd made before.
Meanwhile, our families were rebuilding.
My father stepped down.
Daniel Bellucci cooperated fully with investigators and began rebuilding his relationship with Sophia.
My uncle remained in prison.
Marcus took over more of the legitimate businesses.
And Sophia started an organization in Elena's name.
The Elena Bellucci Foundation helped women escaping coercive families and abusive situations.
Sophia wanted something good to exist where fear had once ruled.
I funded the first building.
She refused to name it after me.
I respected her for that.
One night, after the foundation's first annual dinner, we stood on a rooftop overlooking Manhattan.
Sophia looked at the city.
“Do you ever think about that first night?”
“Every day.”
“You stayed in the chair all night.”
“Yes.”
“You were bleeding.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head.
“You were insane.”
“Probably.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not taking what everyone told you was yours.”
I looked at her.
“You were never mine.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I was your wife.”
“You were.”
“But not mine.”
“No.”
She smiled softly.
“Good answer.”
Then she kissed me.
For the first time, there was no fear.
No obligation.
May you like
No audience.
Just choice.
