Page 29 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"Almost perfect." She shapes the dough into neat rounds. "I'm still tweaking the ratio of cardamom to cinnamon."
I smile, remembering a time when such details would have seemed trivial to me. Now I understand. In Fern's world, the balance of spices matters as much as the balance of power does in mine.
That's been the most surprising discovery of the past six months: how seamlessly our worlds have woven together. I've built legitimate businesses around her bakery—a coffee roaster, a specialty food importer, a chain of cafes featuring her pastries. She's embraced parts of my world too, hosting dinner parties for business associates, learning which conversations to avoid, which men never to trust.
We've created something new together, something neither of us envisioned when I dragged her into my car that rainy night and demanded she become my wife.
"I need to check the ovens," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Can you put those in the proofing drawer?"
I do as asked, handling the delicate pastry with care I wouldn't show for anything else in my life except her. When she returns, she looks surprised and pleased at my handiwork.
"You're getting good at this, Mr. Vale."
"I have an excellent teacher, Mrs. Vale."
Her eyes soften at the name, as they always do. It took months for her to truly embrace being Fern Vale, to stop introducing herself as Fern Whitaker when meeting new people. Now she says it with pride, with ownership.
She moves around her kitchen with practiced grace, checking timers, adjusting temperatures, adding finishing touches to pastries already cooling on racks. I marvel at her focus, her artistry, the way her hands create beauty from simpleingredients. Just as she's created beauty from the wreckage of our beginning.
"I need to step out for a bit," I tell her, checking my watch. Everything is set, but I need fifteen minutes to make sure the final details are perfect. "I'll be back before opening."
She looks up, curious. I rarely leave once I've arrived. "Everything okay?"
"Perfect." I kiss her forehead. "Don't go anywhere."
Outside, I confirm arrangements with Marco, who's coordinating the surprise. The spring morning is perfect—blue skies, gentle breeze, the kind of day Fern loves. At exactly 6:45, I reenter the bakery through the back door, approaching Fern as she pulls a tray of croissants from the oven.
"Perfect timing," she says, sliding the tray onto the cooling rack. "These are your favorite—the dark chocolate ones."
I wait until she turns, until she can see my face clearly. "Fern, I need to talk to you."
Something in my tone makes her pause. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I take her hands in mine, careful of the lingering heat from the oven. "I just need to do something I should have done months ago."
Confusion crosses her features as I drop to one knee before her, still holding her hands in mine. "Atlas, what are you?—"
"Six months ago, I forced you into marriage," I begin, the words rehearsed but sincere. "I gave you no choice, no courtship, nothing a woman like you deserves. I took your freedom in the name of protection. And somehow, miraculously, you've forgiven me for that. You've built a life with me. You've loved me despite how we began."
Her eyes widen, filling with tears as she realizes what's happening. "Atlas?—"
I release one of her hands to pull the box from my pocket. "I want to do this right, Fern. I want to give you the proposal you should have had. The choice you should have been offered."
I open the box, revealing the ring inside—a cushion-cut blue diamond surrounded by smaller white diamonds in a vintage-inspired platinum setting. The color matches her eyes exactly, as I knew it would when I commissioned it months ago.
"Fern Whitaker Vale," I say, using her full name deliberately, acknowledging all of who she is. "I love you more than I thought it was possible to love another person. You've changed me, challenged me, made me better than I was. Will you choose me, this time? Will you be my wife—for real, forever, because you want to, not because you have to?"
A tear slides down her cheek, then another. "You ridiculous man," she says, her voice trembling with emotion. "I already am your wife."
"Say yes anyway," I urge, my own voice rougher than intended. "Choose me, like I've chosen you."
"Yes." The word is soft but certain, her free hand coming to cup my face. "Of course yes. I chose you months ago, Atlas, when I told you I loved you. When I stayed even after the danger passed."
I slide the ring onto her finger, just above her wedding band, where it sits like it was made to be there. Then I'm on my feet, pulling her into my arms, lifting her off the ground as I claim her mouth in a kiss that's equal parts tenderness and possession.
When I set her down, she examines the ring in wonder. "It's beautiful. It matches my?—"
"Your eyes. I know." I brush a tear from her cheek. "I had it made specially."
