Semua Bab Ashes Of His Regret : Bab 151 - Bab 160

Esmeralda’s POV“You should try to get some sleep, Mrs. Hale.”The nurse says it softly from the doorway, her voice careful in the quiet of the room. I shake my head, adjusting Margaret Rose slightly against my chest, my fingers instinctively supporting her head the way I’ve already learned to do without thinking about it. “I’m okay,” I tell her, and I mean it. The nurse studies me for a second like she’s deciding whether to insist, then smiles in that knowing way women like her have, like she has seen this exact moment a hundred times before and nods. “Call if you need anything,” she says, before slipping out and closing the door gently behind her.The room settles into that deep hospital quiet that only exists in the early hours of the morning. It isn’t silence, there are distant footsteps, the low hum of machines, the occasional cry of a newborn somewhere down the hall..but inside this room, everything feels contained, slowed, almost suspended. Damien is asleep in the chair beside

Esmeralda’s POV“Ask me again,” I say.Damien looks up from his laptop slowly, like he’s making sure he heard me right. The document on the screen is forgotten almost immediately, his attention shifting fully, completely, the way it always does when something about me changes, even slightly.“Again?” he asks.I glance at the bassinet, at the quiet rise and fall of Margaret Rose’s chest, then back at him. “Yes,” I say. “Properly this time.”He closes the laptop.He turns toward me.“Esmeralda,” he says.“Yes.”“Will you marry me?” A pause. “The real version. The full version. In front of people who matter, on a day we choose, with no strategy attached.”I look at him.The man who fell in love with me at a charity gala and said nothing for three years. Who signed a contract and made it real. Who measured a ring size three weeks in advance and waited. Who sits in hospital chairs all night and moves things on bathroom counters without commentary and is there for the four AM hours because

Esmeralda’s POV“Esmeralda,” my attorney says, “it’s done.”I pause, pen still in my hand, the contract on my desk forgotten mid-signature. Around me, Morrison moves in its usual rhythm, phones ringing, quiet conversations through glass walls, the steady architecture of a company that no longer feels fragile.“The Morrison Foundation is officially registered,” she continues. “Your father’s name is on it.”I set the pen down slowly.“Thank you,” I say.“The first board meeting can be scheduled whenever you’re ready.”“Next month,” I reply, already thinking ahead. “Give me four weeks to finalize the charter.”“Of course.” She hesitates briefly. “Esmeralda… this is significant.”“I know.”“Your father would—”“I know,” I say again, softer this time.She understands enough not to finish the sentence.We hang up.I sit there for a moment, not moving, just letting it settle into something real. The Morrison Foundation. Named for my father. Built not from anger, not from the need to prove an

Lila's POV"It's not a setup," Esmeralda says."You're saying that a lot," I say."Because you keep looking at me like it's a setup.""It feels like a setup.""It's dinner." She adjusts Margaret Rose on her hip without looking down, she does this now, the effortless physical fluency of a woman who has been carrying a baby for four months and has integrated it entirely into her movements. "Damien wanted Marcus to come. Marcus is coming. You are coming. It is dinner."I look at her."Where is this dinner?""Arlo's.""Arlo's is a date restaurant.""Arlo's is a restaurant.""With candles.""Many restaurants have candles.""Esmeralda."She looks at me. The composed face. The perfectly neutral expression of a woman who has testified in federal sentencing hearings without flinching and is currently applying that same composure to the question of whether this is a setup."It's not a setup," she says.It is absolutely a setup.*****I wear the green dress.Not because of any particular intent

Esmeralda's POVThe letter arrives on a Wednesday.My attorney calls first, that is the arrangement, she receives anything from Julian's legal representation before it reaches me, a boundary established after the first letter and maintained since. She calls at nine-fourteen AM while I am in the Morrison boardroom reviewing the IPO launch numbers and I step out into the hallway to take it."There's a letter," she says.I already know what kind."From his legal team?" I ask."From him," she says. "Directly. Handwritten. Addressed to you." A pause. "I've reviewed it. It's not a legal communication. It's personal."I stand in the hallway.The boardroom behind me. The numbers I was reviewing. The IPO two weeks away. Margaret Rose's photograph on my phone screen which I look at approximately forty times a day without quite knowing I'm doing it."I'll send it over," she says."Yes," I say."You don't have to open it.""I know.""Or respond.""I know."She sends it.It arrives in my inbox at