Chapter 7 - NERO CHOOSES JARED
A year after the night we met, Nero stopped sleeping outside Gabriel’s room.
That does not sound dramatic.
It was.
After Gabriel returned to work, Nero followed him everywhere.
Expected.
He ate.
Gained weight.
Muscle returned.
His coat shone.
But whenever Gabriel left the penthouse, Nero waited near the elevator.
For months.
Then one evening Gabriel went home.
Nero watched the doors close.
Walked once around the foyer.
Then went into Jared’s study.
Lay beside his chair.
Jared called me.
“You need to come.”
“Is he sick?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Nero.”
“What about him?”
“He chose my office.”
I laughed.
“He lives there.”
“No.”
“You don't understand.”
I did.
I came anyway.
Not because the dog needed me.
Because Jared did.
Nero was asleep beside his chair.
Jared stared down at him.
“For five years, he tolerated me because Lucia left him here.”
“Then after Gabriel disappeared, I thought…”
He stopped.
“That the dog blamed you?”
“Maybe.”
“You know dogs don't build moral cases.”
“I know.”
“Emotionally?”
“No.”
Fair.
I crouched.
Nero opened one eye.
Then went back to sleep.
“He feels safe.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
Jared’s throat moved.
For a feared man, approval from a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog had unreasonable power.
I sat on the sofa.
Jared looked at me.
“You came.”
“You sounded distressed.”
“I did not.”
“You called a veterinary student because a dog slept.”
“Point taken.”
We had been dating eight months.
Slowly.
I still had my apartment.
My own bank account.
My own work.
Security was never stationed outside my home unless there was a verified risk and I agreed.
Jared asked before sending a car.
I often said no.
He survived.
One night we argued because he had canceled a restaurant reservation after learning a man connected to Brendan had once worked there.
“What exactly did you think would happen?”
“I didn't know.”
“So you decided for me.”
He stopped.
Same issue.
Different form.
“You're right.”
“Stop being so good at saying that.”
“I thought women wanted accountability.”
“We also enjoy winning arguments.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“What should I have done?”
“Told me.”
“Asked whether I wanted to change restaurants.”
“And if you said no?”
“You make your own decision about whether you feel safe attending.”
“But you don't make mine.”
He nodded.
We went somewhere else that night.
My choice.
Not because he ordered it.
Difference.
Our hardest conversation came when Jared asked whether I would move into his penthouse.
“No.”
He looked wounded.
“Why?”
“I don't want to live where everyone works for you.”
“That is practical.”
“For you.”
“I would always be the woman living inside your infrastructure.”
“Security.”
“Staff.”
“Cars.”
“Food.”
“Everything.”
He became quiet.
“What do you want?”
“I don't know.”
That was allowed.
Three months later, we rented a house in Brooklyn Heights for weekends.
Not moving in permanently.
Experiment.
Jared paid more because he earned absurdly more.
I paid an amount proportionate to my income because free housing from him would have changed how it felt to me.
He thought that was unnecessarily complicated.
Our therapist agreed with me.
Yes.
Therapist.
Jared suggested it before cohabitation.
I nearly checked for a fever.
He said:
“I have historical data suggesting I occasionally confuse care with management.”
Historical data.
Only Jared.
The house had no live-in staff.
Two exterior security cameras.
One panic system.
No guards inside.
Nero loved the backyard.
For the first time, I saw Jared take out his own trash.
I photographed it.
He threatened litigation.
Life became ordinary enough to be funny.
That was when I realized I loved him.
Not while he stood in a doorway watching his dying dog.
Not while dismantling family corruption.
While he stood in sweatpants arguing with a recycling bin.
I kept the information to myself for three weeks.
Then one night he burned pasta.
I said:
“I love you.”
Jared dropped the spoon.
Nero woke.
Jared stared at me.
“What?”
“I said it once.”
“I heard.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because my brain stopped.”
I laughed.
He crossed the kitchen.
Stopped before touching me.
“Can I?”
That nearly broke me.
“Yes.”
He kissed me.
No fear.
No debt.
No rescue.
May you like
Choice.
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