Chapter 259. Signs of Restlessness

It began with the paperclips.

Sabatine walked into Anton’s study one evening to find him meticulously straightening a small, silver tray of them on his desk, aligning each one parallel to the blotter with the focus of a neurosurgeon. He’d always been tidy, but this was different. This was ritualistic.

“Expecting a stationery audit?” she’d asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He’d started, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just… clearing the mind. Order begets order.” He’d waved a hand dismissively, but his eyes held a hunted look.

That was the first sign.

Then came the excessive attentiveness. He’d bring her tea without being asked, the mug placed just so on her desk, the handle turned to the precise angle for easiest gripping. He’d remember obscure details from passing comments she’d made weeks prior—“You mentioned you liked those pistachio baklavas from that place in Mayfair,” and a box would appear the next day. It was sweet, overwhelmingly so, and utterly unlike the man who expressed love through shared silence and fierce, protective partnership. This was the behaviour of a man trying to atone for a sin not yet committed, or to fortify a position before a coming storm.

The nervous energy was the most telling. Anton Rogers, who could stare down a hostile boardroom with glacial calm, now fidgeted. He’d tap his fingers against his thigh during quiet evenings, his gaze drifting to the window as if tracking unseen aircraft. He’d jump at sudden noises—the ping of her security tablet, the backfiring of a car on the street below—his body tensing into a readiness that had nothing to do with present danger.

Sabatine, whose entire professional life was built on reading subtle tells and predicting threats, watched the pattern coalesce with a growing, amused suspicion. This wasn’t the anxiety of a new corporate threat; her team had the Dubai lead contained, and he knew it. This was the agitation of a man with a secret, a pleasant one he was terrified of bungling.

One night, as they prepared for bed, she caught him staring at her reflection in the darkened window, his expression a complex map of longing and panic.

“Alright,” she said, closing her jewellery box with a soft click. “Out with it.”

He blinked,forcibly smoothing his features into neutrality. “Out with what?”

“Whatever it is you’re planning that’s making you twitchier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”She turned to face him, crossing her arms. “You’ve realigned the bookshelves by colour gradient. You asked my opinion on three different vintages of Burgundy for ‘no particular reason.’ You’ve started humming. You never hum, Anton. It’s unsettling.”

He had the decency to look chastened, running a hand through his hair—another new, anxious habit. “I’m not planning anything. I’m just… ensuring things are optimal.”

“Optimal,” she repeated, deadpan. “The pantry is now organised by culinary origin and expiration date. You had the piano tuned. We don’t own a piano. I don’t even know how to play.”

“Aesthetics,” he insisted weakly, avoiding her eyes. “And sound investment. A tuned piano holds its value.”

She walked over to him, stopping inches away, and peered up into his face. She could see the pulse beating rapidly at the base of his throat. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s one of the things I love about you. So, what is it? A surprise party? Please god, tell me it’s not a surprise party. I will neutralise the guests.”

A genuine laugh escaped him, breaking some of the tension. “No. No surprise parties. I value our friends’ lives too much to subject them to your defensive protocols.”

“Then what?” she pressed, her voice softening. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath her palm. “You can tell me. Is it about the ring?”

He went perfectly still. The word, spoken aloud, seemed to hang in the air between them, shimmering with all the weight of the unasked question. His secret, named.

“What ring?” he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.

“The one you’ve been carrying in your jacket pocket for weeks. The one that disappeared from your pocket and now presumably lives in the safe. The one that makes you look at me sometimes like I’m the sunrise and you’re afraid you’re dreaming.” She said it all gently, without accusation, her thumb stroking a soothing circle over his heart. “I’m a security expert, my love. I notice changes in patterns. And a small, square-shaped bulge in your inner breast pocket that arrives and dealers with palpable emotional significance is a pretty glaring pattern.”

All the fight went out of him. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his forehead against hers. “I’ve been so obvious.”

“Painfully,”she agreed, but she was smiling. “And incredibly sweet. And also driving me slightly insane. What are you waiting for?”

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers, wide with vulnerability. “The perfect moment. After everything… the chaos, the blood, the therapy… you deserve a moment that isn’t stained by any of it. Something beautiful and pure. And every time I think I’ve found it, something happens. A security alert. A letter from your brother. A reminder that our life is… not normal.”

Her heart swelled with a love so fierce it was almost violent. This brilliant, powerful man was tying himself in knots trying to orchestrate a fairy-tale for her, a woman whose happiest moments were often found in the quiet after the storm had passed.

“Anton,” she said, taking his face in her hands. “Listen to me. Our life is our perfect moment. The ‘beautiful and pure’ thing isn’t a lack of shadows. It’s the fact that we found each other in the middle of them. The perfect moment isn’t going to be some pristine, untouchable event. It’s going to be us. Maybe I’ll have my security earpiece in. Maybe you’ll have just gotten off a stressful call. Maybe it’ll be in the kitchen over slightly burnt toast.” She smiled, her eyes glistening. “Don’t you see? The magic isn’t in the setting. It’s in the Ask. And in the answer.”

He stared at her, the anxiety in his eyes slowly melting, replaced by a dawning, wondrous understanding. He’d been trying to create a bubble outside of their reality, when the reality—their messy, dangerous, glorious reality—was the only fitting backdrop.

“You’re not… disappointed?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Disappointed?”She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “That the man I love is so desperate to give me a perfect memory that he’s neurotically organising paperclips? It’s the least disappointing thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

He pulled her into a crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair. She could feel the remaining tension drain from his body, replaced by a profound relief. “I’ve been an idiot,” he mumbled into her neck.

“A very sweet, very attentive idiot,” she corrected, holding him tight. “But the restlessness has to stop. You’re making me paranoid. I’ve run three full spectral analyses on the tea you brought me, convinced you were trying to drug me for some elaborate scheme.”

He laughed, the sound full and free, the first real laugh she’d heard from him in days. He pulled back, his eyes clear, the hunted look gone. “No schemes. Not anymore.” He kissed her, a slow, deep kiss of gratitude and promise. “The ring is there. The question is there. The answer,” he paused, a question in his eyes even now.

She answered it with a kiss, pouring every ounce of her certainty into it. When they parted, she whispered against his lips, “Is there. Always.”

The signs of restlessness didn’t vanish overnight, but they transformed. The next day, he didn’t straighten the paperclips; he used one to fix a loose wire on her favourite desk lamp. He brought her tea, but he also stole a sip from her mug with a playful grin. The nervous energy settled into a quiet, buzzing anticipation—a shared secret now, a countdown not to a perfectly staged event, but to a truth that would be spoken whenever the moment felt most like theirs.

And Sabatine, for her part, relaxed. The threat pattern had been identified, assessed, and determined to be benign—the most beautiful kind of alarm. She went back to watching the world for real dangers, knowing the only thing brewing in the heart of her billionaire was a love so profound it had, for a little while, made him forget that their greatest perfection was their imperfect, scarred, and magnificent us.

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