As we begin our descent into New York, Seraphina finally breaks her silence. "People will talk. About the wedding. About... us."
"Let them," I respond, setting aside my tablet to give her my full attention. "The narrative is already being shaped. A love story, not a kidnapping. Star-crossed lovers reunited in dramatic fashion."
"And Richard?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral. "Have you... been in contact with him?"
I consider lying. Decide against it. "Yes. We've reached an understanding."
"What kind of understanding?" Her eyes narrow with suspicion.
"The kind that ensures he won't complicate our lives moving forward," I reply smoothly. "He's accepted a position in São Paulo. Left the country three days ago."
"You arranged that," she states rather than asks, a note of resigned acceptance in her voice. "Without consulting me."
"I handled it," I correct. "Efficiently and permanently. Would you rather have had a messy, public confrontation? Dueling statements to the press? An awkward scene the first time you ran into him at some gallery opening?"
She sighs, leaning back in her seat. "No. But I would have liked to have been consulted."
"Noted." I acknowledge her point without apologizing for my actions. "In the future, I'll include you in decisions that affect your former relationships."
Her lips quirk in what might almost be amusement. "How magnanimous."
The plane touches down smoothly, taxiing to the private hangar where my car waits. Seraphina's posture tenses as we prepare to disembark, the reality of returning to New York—to the scene of both our most intense connection and our painful separation—visibly weighing on her.
"It will be fine," I tell her, covering her hand with mine. "Trust me."
She doesn't answer, but she doesn't pull away either. Progress.
The drive to the penthouse passes in comfortable silence, the familiar Manhattan skyline welcoming us home as if we'd never left. Security waves us through to the private underground parking, and then we're in the elevator, ascending to the top floor—my domain, soon to be hers again too.
"I've made some changes since you were last here," I inform her as the doors slide open directly into the foyer. "Come see."
The penthouse has always been an extension of myself—sleek, modern, perhaps intimidating in its perfection. But now there are subtle differences, softening touches that transform it from a bachelor's showplace to something more welcoming, more balanced.
Fresh flowers in the entryway—peonies, her favorite. Art on the walls that reflects her taste rather than just mine. A new seating area positioned to catch the morning light, perfect for reading or simply watching the city wake up, something she always loved to do.
I guide her through the main living area toward what was once my office—a space she seldom entered during our previous time together. Now the double doors stand open, revealing a transformation that brings her up short, her breath catching audibly.
"What is this?" she asks, stepping into the room tentatively.
"Your office," I explain, watching her reaction carefully. "Connected to the gallery by a private elevator. You can come and go directly from here, no need to deal with the main entrance or lobby traffic."
She moves deeper into the space, touching the sleek desk, the comfortable chair, the state-of-the-art computer system with multiple monitors for viewing digital art submissions. Everything selected specifically for her needs, her preferences, her comfort.
"You had this built while I was gone? After I left you?" Confusion colors her voice.
"No," I admit. "After I decided to bring you home. While you were on the island."
Her eyes meet mine, questioning. "You were that certain I'd come back to New York with you? That I wouldn't find a way to escape?"
"I was certain that eventually, we'd be here together again," I clarify. "Whether it took days, weeks, or months. Some things are inevitable, Seraphina."
She continues her exploration, discovering the small refrigerator stocked with the sparkling water she prefers, the hidden storage systems designed specifically for art portfolios, the lighting calibrated to showcase paintings to their best advantage.
"This is..." she trails off, seeming genuinely at a loss for words.
"Home," I supply, moving to stand behind her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. "Your home. With me. Where you belong."
She turns to face me, those green eyes searching mine with an intensity that matches my own. "And if I still want my own apartment? My own space?"
