Page 112 of Legacy
In the morning, I rinse the plate and tuck it in the dishwasher.
Sometimes I hear him in his office before dawn, when the penthouse is still dark.
Good. Let him work. Let him brood.
The less I see him, the better.
The elevator doors slide open.
For once, I’m home at a decent hour. It’s only six. My body moves before my brain thinks, drawn toward the kitchen, already expecting the covered plate in the microwave.
I stop dead in my tracks.
He’s here.
Sitting at the table.
The kitchen looks different with him in it—like he doesn’t belong, but everything in the room orbits around him anyway.
Black marble counters. Soft pendant lighting. Two plates already waiting. The scent of garlic and basil lingers in the air, warm and inviting in a way I don’t want it to be.
“Enzo told me you were coming home earlier than usual,” he says, his voice low, almost careful. “I figured we could share a meal.”
I hesitate.
He’s dressed casually, long-sleeve burgundy shirt, dark jeans.
Normal.
Almost human.
And somehow that makes it worse.
I steel myself with a breath and take the seat across from him.
“Just a meal?”
“And a conversation.”
I sigh.
“Please, Adriana. Not a fight. A conversation. An apology.”
I glance at him—and damn it.
He looks sincere. Those light gray eyes of his are soft, almost desperate.
“Alright,” I say, cautious. “What are you apologizing for?”
I twirl my fork in the pasta and take a bite.
Fuck. It’s perfect.
Of course it is.
I hate him.
“Blindsiding you with this marriage,” he says quietly. “Fighting you instead of listening. I should’ve listened.”
