Chapter 7 - Thirty Days
I returned to Atlanta alone.
The house felt wrong.
Dakota’s coffee mug sat beside the sink.
Her running shoes were beneath the bench near the garage.
A half-finished paperback lay face down beside our bed.
Ordinary things became evidence of a life I had assumed would always be there.
Bellweather placed me on administrative leave.
I expected termination.
Instead, Nathan called three days later.
“The forensic team cleared you of the theft.”
“Not the policy violations.”
“No.”
Using company travel during an affair, approving work involving Trinity, and concealing the conflict of interest were enough.
I resigned.
No severance.
No fight.
For the first time since college, I had no impressive title.
Strangely, losing the job hurt less than losing breakfast with Dakota.
The divorce papers remained on the kitchen counter.
Thirty days.
Georgia’s process would take longer, but Dakota had requested an immediate separation agreement.
I signed everything she sent.
Then I started therapy.
Not because I thought therapy would bring her back.
Because I had spent years believing remorse was the same thing as change.
It wasn’t.
Remorse was feeling terrible.
Change was becoming someone who stopped creating reasons to feel terrible.
Trinity returned to the United States under a cooperation agreement.
She called once.
I answered.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“So am I.”
“Do you hate me?”
I thought about it.
“No.”
That surprised both of us.
“I hate what we did.”
She cried quietly.
Then she said, “I really did care about you.”
“I know.”
“But we were never going to work.”
“I know that too.”
We ended the call.
I never spoke to her again.
Two weeks later, Vanessa Bell was indicted on fraud, conspiracy, obstruction, and money-laundering charges. Caleb faced additional charges in Europe.
Charles announced an independent review of Bellweather’s history and established a restitution fund tied to the old shell companies.
Then he resigned.
The empire survived.
The secrets didn’t.
Dakota remained in Florence.
I knew because Evelyn occasionally emailed me.
Never personal information.
Only legal updates.
Then, on the twenty-eighth day, I received an envelope.
For a ridiculous second, I was afraid to open it.
Inside was a plane ticket.
Atlanta to Florence.
Flight 912.
No note.
I called Nathan.
“Did you send this?”
“No.”
“Evelyn?”
“No.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Dakota?”
Nathan paused.
“You should probably ask her.”
I hadn’t called Dakota once since returning home.
That had been intentional.
Giving someone space means accepting that they might use it to leave.
I called.
She answered after four rings.
“Hello?”
Hearing her voice nearly undid me.
“Did you send me a plane ticket?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my grandmother is reopening Palazzo Vieri.”
“I thought Bellweather was buying it.”
“That deal is dead.”
“What is she doing with it?”
“Turning part of it into a foundation honoring my father.”
I smiled despite myself.
“He would probably like that.”
“I think so.”
Silence.
Then I asked, “Why do you want me there?”
Another silence.
“I didn’t say I wanted you there.”
“Dakota.”
She laughed softly.
It was the first time I had heard her laugh in a month.
“I want you there.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because there’s something you need to see.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
The ticket was for Friday.
“What happens Friday?”
“You’ll find out.”
The old Dakota would have told me.
The new Dakota didn’t owe me certainty.
“I’ll be there.”
“Mason?”
“Yes?”
“This is not reconciliation.”
“I understand.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“And don’t show up expecting some romantic airport scene.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
She hung up.
Friday morning, I boarded Flight 912 alone.
Economy.
Seat 34A.
For nine hours, I wondered what waited in Florence.
Dakota was at arrivals.
She wore jeans, a white shirt, and the gold necklace I gave her on our fifth anniversary.
My heart betrayed me immediately.
I stopped several feet away.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
No hug.
No kiss.
She took me to Palazzo Vieri.
Construction crews had already begun transforming the west wing.
In the courtyard stood a temporary sign.
THE DANIEL VIERI FOUNDATION FOR ETHICAL BUSINESS LEADERSHIP.
I stared at it.
“That’s incredible.”
“My grandmother’s idea.”
“It’s perfect.”
Dakota turned toward me.
“There’s more.”
She led me into Daniel’s restored office.
On the desk was a letter.
My name appeared on the front.
But the handwriting wasn’t Dakota’s.
It was Daniel Vieri’s.
“That’s impossible.”
Dakota nodded.
“He wrote it twenty-two years ago.”
“To me?”
“Not exactly.”
I picked it up.
Across the front, Daniel had written:
May you like
TO THE MAN WHO ONE DAY MARRIES MY DAUGHTER.
My hands began to shake.
