Page 182 of Ruined Vows
She’s determined to change the world, one child at a time.
This is the woman I choose, for better and worse. And God help me—I love her like this. She has fire in her blood and steel in her spine.
She’s the storm I didn’t see coming, but I never want to live without it. She’s my everything.
The corner of her mouth twitches when she sees the new construction in the children’s wing. We walk down the pristine halls. The paint is still fresh, and the halls are quiet. It will house more children than before.
She’s found her calling. She’s happy, even content. We pause in front of a sign as she runs her fingers over the lettering ofThe Borrelli Children’s Sanctuary.The plaque beneath it is etched in gold. No fanfare. No press. Just permanence.
And I let her have that moment. Because this is what I love, watching her become the woman she was always destined to be. And I’m privileged to witness it.
Over the months, she’s spoken to the builders, the women hired to work the center, and the little girl she promised a bed when she had none.
I stand in the background. I may have ended the war, butshebuilt the peace.
When she walks back to me, I reach into my coat and hand her a small box. Velvet. Unassuming.
She opens it.
Inside— not jewelry. It’s a key to the entire estate. Not because she needs it. Because it’s already hers.
She closes the box, then looks at me with eyelids heavy with emotion.
"This isn’t a proposal,” she says, deadpan.
"No. It’s a promise."
She nods.
And for once, we don’t need any more words. We just stand there, and her hand slides into mine. Today, we’re two survivors. Two rulers. Two people who burned the world down…to build a better one. The smoke is gone now.
What remains is stone, scaffolding, and blueprints pinned beneath my fingers.
The shelter is being rebuilt—not as it was, but as itshouldhave been.
Bigger. Safer. Ours.
Women move through the rubble with purpose, not fear. The survivors are returning not just for help—but to help.
61
VUKAN
THE ONLY YES THAT MATTERS
It happens on a quiet morning. No guards in the hall. No war at the door.
Just us.
She doesn’t hear the shift in my breath—not from fear or nerves,just something like peace.
“Bianca,” I say, entering the baby’s nursery. Bianca places toys on a shelf and stacks books for the baby. Then, she folds a blanket, slipping it over the back of the rocking chair.
I love her like this, strong, maternal. Mine.
She looks up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
I cross the room slowly. No kneeling. No speech. Just a small black box in my palm.
