Back for him, Not for me.

The glass shattered against the study wall before anyone could stop it.

“Get out of my house!” Peter Fenwick’s arm was still raised from the throw, his chest heaving, water dripping down the wallpaper behind him. “I do not care whose signature is on that contract — get out, all of you!”

“Peter.” Beatrice Fenwick’s hand shot out, gripping her husband’s sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please, sit down.”

Everett Ossorio did not even flinch at the broken glass. She remained seated and composed, one leg crossed over the other, watching the outburst the way someone watches a tantrum they have already decided will end in their favor. “Finished, Peter? Or would you like to break something else before we get to the part where I save your family’s name and empire at the same time?”

“Save us?” Peter’s laugh came out jagged, humorless. “Did you build this collapse? Do not sit in my study and pretend you are rescuing anyone.”

“I built nothing.” Everett’s voice did not rise, which somehow made it worse. “I am simply the only person left in this city still willing to offer you a way out.”

The word hung in the air like smoke. That morning’s headline still sat folded on the kitchen counter at home: FENWICK EMPIRE CRUMBLES OVERNIGHT. Isadora had read it twice before her mother snatched it away.

The lawyer cleared his throat and slid the contract across the mahogany table anyway, the sound of paper against polished wood cutting through the tension like a verdict being read aloud. “The terms are already agreed upon. We only need the signatures.”

Peter stared at the papers like they might catch fire. Beatrice had gone silent beside Isadora, her hands pressed flat against her thighs to keep them from shaking, her knuckles the color of chalk.

Isadora reached the pen before her father could refuse it for her.

“Isadora—” Beatrice’s voice cracked.

“It is fine, Mum.” She was already writing her name, fast, before the shaking in her hand could catch up to the shaking in her chest. “I will do it.”

Across the table, Rafael Ossorio had not said a single word since he walked in. He watched her sign the way a man watches a verdict he already expected — no relief, no triumph, nothing at all.

Isadora set the pen down. “Three years,” she said quietly, more to herself than to anyone in the room. “And then it ends.”

“And then it ends,” Everett agreed, satisfied, curling at the corner of her mouth like smoke.

Her father turned from the window only after the second signature, his eyes wet, his pride buried somewhere he would never speak of again. Her mother exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the collapse began. Rafael simply reached across the table, took the pen from Isadora’s fingers without a word, and signed beneath her name like he was closing a business deal and nothing more.

The wedding date was set before either family left the room.

It would be a quiet court wedding, arranged by both families.

Three weeks later, in the penthouse that had become their shared home, Isadora expected coldness. She braced for it the way one braces for winter, layering herself in indifference before Rafael could hand it to her first.

That same evening, after another exhausting day at work, she returned home with a stomach ulcer flare-up so severe she could barely stand. Her steps slowed as she entered their bedroom, only to find her medicine already waiting on the nightstand beside a glass of warm water and two crackers arranged on a small plate.

“How did you know?” she asked when Rafael appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie.

“Your assistant mentioned you left the office early.” He said it simply, as if it required no explanation. “I called the pharmacy before you arrived.”

“You did not have to do that.”

“I know.” He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her face the way he always did — careful, searching, as though she were something fragile he had not yet learned to hold correctly. “Eat something before you take the tablet. It will hurt less on an empty stomach.”

She stared at him. “Since when do you know that?”

“Since I decided to pay attention.” A pause. “You go quiet when something is wrong. Loud when nothing is. I have learned to read between the two.”

Isadora said nothing, because there was nothing safe to say to a man who had just described her more accurately than her own mother ever had.

Over the months that followed, those quiet moments stopped feeling like exceptions. The pattern repeated itself in small, deliberate ways.

He instructed the chef to remove anything that triggered her ulcer without being asked twice. He ate whatever she liked, even dishes he clearly did not enjoy, without a single complaint. He canceled a board meeting once, simply because she had gone unusually silent at breakfast, and did not leave the house until she told him what was wrong.

Isadora began to forget she was counting down anything at all.

By the time the third year of their contract came to an end, Isadora had almost forgotten there had ever been an expiration date.

That evening, she was already in the kitchen—not the chef, not the housekeeper, but Isadora herself, sleeves pushed up as she plated the roasted branzino she had rushed home early to prepare.

“You cooked?” Rafael asked, setting his briefcase down slower than necessary, something unguarded crossing his face.

“I had time today.” She smiled, and it came easily, the way it had not come easily in years.

They ate together at the kitchen island instead of the dining room, laughing over something small and forgettable, his hand finding hers between courses like it belonged there.

Later that night, after dinner had long been cleared away and the house had settled into silence, the warmth of him had settled into her skin and her heartbeat had finally slowed against his chest, Rafael pulled her closer instead of letting go. 

He kissed her lips deeply , then her forehead, lingering there longer than the moment required.

“Meet me at the office tomorrow,” he murmured against her hair. “Ten in the morning.”

“Why?” she had asked, still catching her breath.

“Something important.” That was all he said.

Isadora smiled into the dark, already imagining flowers, a private lunch, perhaps even a photograph for the anniversary neither of them had ever officially planned to celebrate.

Isadora smiled into the dark.