Chapter 9 - The Dress I Chose
Six months later, Gideon took me to dinner at the same little Cambridge restaurant where we had eaten after closing our first acquisition together five years earlier.
Back then, we had sat across from each other discussing valuation models.
Now his hand rested beside mine on the table.
Not touching.
Waiting.
Gideon had become very good at waiting.
That was one of the reasons I loved him.
The investigations had changed everything.
Victor Calder had been indicted on racketeering, conspiracy, fraud and charges connected to my father’s death.
Marcus survived the warehouse shooting and accepted a plea agreement in exchange for testimony.
Malcolm Pemberton resigned from every board he held and entered his own agreement with prosecutors.
Alister moved to Maine.
Kyle told me he was working with a nonprofit biotech incubator and had no intention of borrowing money from anyone ever again.
Ferris Group survived.
More importantly, Gideon changed it.
The shadow businesses were either closed, sold or converted into legitimate operations.
Men who had worked for his family for decades were offered legal employment, severance or the door.
Some accepted.
Some did not.
There had been threats.
But no war.
One night I asked Gideon how he had managed that.
He said, “People often prefer pensions to bullets.”
Romantic.
In his way.
After dinner, we walked along the Charles.
It was cold enough that I slipped my hand into his coat pocket.
He looked down.
“Are you stealing something?”
“Heat.”
“I would have given it voluntarily.”
“I know.”
That was the difference now.
I knew.
Gideon stopped near the water.
I felt him become nervous.
Gideon Ferris.
Nervous.
I immediately knew.
“Don’t.”
His face fell.
“No?”
“Not here.”
He blinked.
I smiled.
“If you propose beside the Charles because you think this is romantic, I will say no on principle.”
He stared at me.
“You’re cruel.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Take me home.”
He did.
When we entered his penthouse, every light was off except one.
On the dining table sat a cardboard box.
Not velvet.
Not expensive.
Cardboard.
I looked at him.
“What is that?”
“Open it.”
Inside was my mother’s repaired Christmas star.
I stopped breathing.
The same star that had hidden my father’s evidence.
The crack along one side had been restored, but not erased.
Beside it was a photograph.
My parents.
Young.
Laughing.
My father holding toddler Kyle.
My mother holding me.
I looked at Gideon.
“How did you find this?”
“Kyle.”
“Traitor.”
“He’s surprisingly affordable.”
I laughed through tears.
Then I saw the ring.
It wasn’t inside a jewelry box.
It rested beneath the Christmas star.
Simple.
Elegant.
A round diamond in a thin platinum setting.
Nothing selected by a stylist.
Nothing chosen to impress a newspaper.
Gideon remained standing.
“No knee?”
“I remember your criticism.”
Then he knelt.
I covered my mouth.
“Emery Nash.”
His voice was steady.
His eyes were not.
“The first time you called me, you told me that rules were sometimes designed to prevent the right person from getting through the door.”
I remembered.
“I’ve spent most of my life building doors no one could get through.”
He took my hand.
“You walked through every one.”
Tears blurred him.
“I loved you badly at first. Quietly. From a distance. I told myself protecting you without asking was noble.”
His thumb moved across my fingers.
“It wasn’t. Loving someone means giving them the truth and trusting them with the choice.”
He lifted the ring.
“So I’m asking.”
No pressure.
No debt.
No rescue.
No bargain.
“Will you marry me?”
I looked at the man I had wanted when wanting him seemed impossible.
Then I thought about the midnight-blue gown.
The woman in the mirror.
Polished.
Perfect.
A prop.
I was not her anymore.
“Yes.”
Gideon closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Like relief had physically struck him.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He slid the ring onto my finger.
Then stood and kissed me.
Somewhere behind us, a door opened.
Kyle shouted, “She said yes!”
I jumped.
Gideon swore.
Lights came on.
Kyle emerged from the hallway carrying champagne.
Behind him were six of our closest friends.
“You planned an audience?”
I asked.
Gideon looked murderous.
“No.”
Kyle grinned.
“I planned an audience.”
I threw a napkin at him.
Three months later, I went shopping for my wedding dress.
Gideon was not invited.
He complained.
I reminded him that the last time he saw me trying on a gown, he destroyed an engagement.
“Successful precedent,” he argued.
“No.”
I chose the dress myself.
No stylist.
No political consultant.
No fiancé dictating the silhouette.
It was ivory silk.
Simple.
Elegant.
Mine.
When the saleswoman asked whether I wanted photographs sent to the groom, I smiled.
“Absolutely not.”
The wedding was scheduled for October at a small estate in Vermont.
Seventy guests.
No press.
No politicians.
Kyle would walk me down the aisle.
Everything seemed settled.
Until twelve days before the ceremony.
I arrived at my office and found an envelope on my desk.
No postage.
No courier record.
Inside was a photograph of Gideon leaving a federal building.
On the back:
ASK YOUR FIANCÉ WHAT HE TRADED FOR IMMUNITY.
My hands went cold.
Gideon had told me he was cooperating with prosecutors.
He had told me everything.
Or I thought he had.
I drove directly to Ferris Group.
Wednesday.
His office door was open.
I placed the photograph on his desk.
Gideon looked at it.
Then at me.
His face told me there was something I did not know.
“Tell me.”
He stood.
“Emery—”
“No.”
I pointed at the photograph.
“We promised.”
“I know.”
“No protecting me from information. No deciding what I can handle.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me what you traded.”
He was silent for several seconds.
Then he opened his safe.
Inside was a sealed federal document.
He handed it to me.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
By the third, I understood.
Gideon had not traded information for his own immunity.
He had refused immunity.
Instead, he had negotiated protection for dozens of low-level Ferris employees who had been dragged into his father’s organization as teenagers and young men.
In exchange, Gideon had accepted personal responsibility for several financial violations committed during the transition years.
“You could be charged.”
“Yes.”
“Could you go to prison?”
“Yes.”
My eyes filled.
“And you weren’t going to tell me before the wedding?”
“I was.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
I wanted to be angry.
Instead, I asked the only question that mattered.
“How long?”
“If the agreement is accepted, possibly eighteen months.”
My wedding was twelve days away.
I looked at the ring on my finger.
Then at Gideon.
He whispered, “If you want to postpone—”
“No.”
He stopped.
“We’re getting married.”
“Emery.”
“You waited five years for me.”
May you like
I stepped closer.
“If necessary, I can wait eighteen months for you.”
