Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN HE FINALLY LET CHOOSEDeclan asked me to move in.
I said no.
He survived.
Progress.
“Reason?”
“I like my house.”
“You complain about the plumbing.”
“My plumbing.”
“The neighbor plays drums.”
“My annoying neighbor.”
“Your kitchen is the size of my closet.”
“Your closet is morally offensive.”
He smiled.
“Fine.”
He stopped asking.
Three months later, I suggested we look for a place together.
His expression was worth every second of waiting.
“Together?”
“Don't make me regret it.”
We bought a house in Lincoln Park.
Not a mansion.
Large enough.
Normal enough.
I paid part.
Declan objected once.
I stared.
He stopped.
The deed contained both names.
Rose got the brightest bedroom.
My restoration studio occupied the carriage house.
Declan’s office was intentionally small.
“Symbolic oppression,” he called it.
“Character building.”
Our life became boring.
Beautifully boring.
Daycare.
Groceries.
Client deadlines.
Declan burning pancakes.
Rose refusing pants.
Savannah visiting with wine she drank herself because I was working.
Gavin occasionally showing up because Declan forgot meetings.
Crime documentaries would have been disappointed.
Then Patrick Voss’s old attorney died.
His estate sent Declan a sealed letter.
Written by Patrick.
Years earlier.
Declan almost threw it away.
“Read it,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because avoiding ghosts doesn't kill them.”
He opened it.
Patrick knew Victor Calloway wanted him dead.
He also knew Declan had begun distancing legitimate Voss companies from criminal operations.
Patrick considered that weakness.
The letter said:
If you ever choose a woman or child over this family, you are not my son.
Declan read it twice.
Then laughed.
Not happily.
“My father would hate me.”
“Probably.”
He looked surprised.
“What?”
“You want me to lie?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I sat beside him.
“Does it matter?”
He looked toward Rose playing on the floor.
“No.”
Then he tore the letter.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Dropped it into recycling.
“Very environmentally responsible rebellion,” I said.
He laughed.
That night, Declan told me something he'd never admitted.
“When my father died, I was relieved.”
I waited.
“I loved him.”
“I know.”
“And I was relieved.”
“Both can be true.”
He nodded.
“He made me believe fear was respect.”
“Do you still believe that?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He smiled.
“Rose isn't afraid of me.”
As if summoned, our toddler entered carrying a plastic spoon.
She hit his knee.
“Snack.”
Declan stood.
“See?”
I laughed.
Therapy helped too.
Yes.
Declan Voss went to therapy.
Gavin treated this information like a state secret.
Savannah announced it at Thanksgiving.
“Pass the potatoes. Also, Declan’s therapist says he has control issues.”
Declan stared.
“I told you that privately.”
“Everyone knew already.”
June raised her glass.
“To therapy.”
Rose shouted:
“THERAPY!”
Nobody corrected her.
My business grew.
I restored works for museums.
Eventually I opened a conservation training program for young people who could not afford graduate programs.
Declan offered money.
I declined.
Savannah’s foundation funded scholarships through an independent grant process.
Better.
Then I discovered I was pregnant again.
This time, I didn't panic.
Much.
I sat in the bathroom holding the test.
Declan knocked.
“Amelia?”
“One minute.”
“Rose flushed a sock.”
“Handle it.”
“I am being oppressed.”
I laughed.
Then opened the door.
He looked at my face.
Then the test.
His mouth opened.
Nothing.
“Say something.”
“We're…”
“Yes.”
“Again?”
“That is generally how pregnancy works.”
He sat on the closed toilet lid.
I laughed harder.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Happy?”
“Yes.”
“Scared?”
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
He looked up.
“Can I hug you?”
Even after years.
Still asking.
“Yes.”
He held me.
This pregnancy was different.
No running.
No fake names.
No engagement announcement.
No burning ultrasound.
At the first appointment, we received a new photograph.
Declan carried it like a religious artifact.
“Don't frame that.”
“Too late.”
“Declan.”
“Three copies.”
Our second child was a boy.
Rose responded:
“No.”
We explained she had limited veto authority.
She remained unconvinced.
We named him Gabriel.
Gabriel Hart-Voss.
That was my suggestion.
Declan stared.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Voss didn't have to mean Patrick anymore.
Names could change meaning.
Families could too.
Gabriel was born healthy.
Declan cried again.
Predictable.
Rose met him wearing a shirt reading BIG SISTER.
She stared into the bassinet.
“He small.”
“So were you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She thought.
“Can we return him?”
Declan whispered:
“Sometimes.”
I elbowed him.
That night, four of us slept under one roof.
No guards outside the bedroom.
No secret alliances.
No war.
I woke at 2 a.m.
Declan was feeding Gabriel.
Rose had somehow climbed into our bed.
I watched them.
Then remembered the promise I made in North Carolina.
You will never be an heir to his empire.
I had kept it.
Because there was no empire left to inherit.
Only a company.
A home.
May you like
A complicated last name.
And a father trying very hard to deserve his children.
Related Stories
