Chapter 7

I took only two suitcases to the airport.

One held clothes and sheet music. The other held my mother’s manuscripts and the documents my father had left.

I had returned every piece of jewelry, every dress, and every set of car keys the Morettis had given me.

My attorney stayed in New York to handle the marriage and the management agreement.

I didn’t need to keep living on that estate, waiting for Julian to find the time to grant me permission.

Before I entered the security line, a photograph arrived on my phone.

Sienna had sent it.

She reclined on a sofa in an airport lounge, a glass of champagne in front of her.

Julian sat beside her, looking down at his phone.

Beneath the picture was a message.

Thanks for giving me your honeymoon.

I didn’t reply.

I blocked her number, then Julian’s.

On the other side of a glass partition, in another lounge, Julian listened to a recorded message saying my phone was unavailable.

Frowning slightly, he lowered the phone and checked the screen.

Sienna offered him champagne.

“Who didn’t answer?”

“No one.”

“Claire?” She paused. “Is she waiting for you to come make her feel better again?”

Julian placed his phone facedown on the table.

“Let her wait.”

The boarding announcement sounded as he spoke.

I was already walking toward a gate on the other side of the terminal.

More than ten hours later, Declan met me at Frankfurt Airport.

He wore a charcoal overcoat, two men accompanying him. The moment he saw me, his steps quickened.

But when he reached me, he stopped.

His gaze settled on the bandage at my temple.

“Who did that?”

I pulled my scarf a little higher.

“I’ll handle it.”

He looked at me for a few seconds, then took my luggage without pressing.

“All right. Let’s get you settled.”

We drove out of the city.

The Valente family ran shipping and warehousing businesses in Europe, along with a network of family connections they didn’t discuss with outsiders.

Declan had been overseeing their interests here for the past few years. In New York, people tended to lower their voices before saying his name.

But the room he had prepared for me wasn’t next to his bedroom.

It was a south-facing guest room with a door I could lock from the inside.

On the table were fresh water, a doctor’s appointment confirmation, and a set of keys.

“There’s a car downstairs. If you want to go out, just tell the housekeeper.” He set the keys beside my hand. “Not to ask permission. So someone can open the gate for you.”

I looked up at him.

As though he understood what I was thinking, he added,

“You don’t have to tell me, either.”

That night, I lay awake until the early hours.

When I went downstairs for water, he was still in the living room.

The documents beside him hadn’t been touched. His coffee had gone cold.

“You haven’t slept?”

“I thought you might have trouble settling in.”

I stood at the foot of the stairs, suddenly unsure what to say.

Declan got up and poured me a glass of warm water.

He didn’t ask about New York.

He didn’t ask about our future.

All he asked was, “Are you hungry?”

I took the glass.

This time, no one expected an apology first.