Chapter 9 - THE MAN WHO NEVER OWED ME A WEDDING
We dated for two years.
Slowly.
Privately when possible.
Badly at first.
Dominic was excellent at negotiating billion-dollar contracts and terrible at choosing casual restaurants.
Our first date involved six forks.
“This is your definition of simple?”
“There are no photographers.”
“There are six forks.”
“I didn't design the table.”
Eventually he learned.
I learned things too.
Dominic hated thunderstorms.
His father died during one.
He couldn't cook eggs.
He secretly watched old black-and-white comedies.
He donated anonymously to a music program because his mother had loved public-school orchestras.
And he was not the man newspapers described.
Not entirely.
No one is.
Caroline rebuilt her life away from her father's company.
Eventually, strangely, we became something close to friends.
Not best friends.
Life doesn't require that much neatness.
But real enough.
Three years after the gala, Dominic brought me into Hawthorne's ballroom.
The Steinway remained beneath the chandelier.
“No.”
He blinked.
“I haven't said anything.”
“You brought me to the piano. I'm protecting myself.”
He laughed.
Then he sat beside me.
“Do you remember what I said that night?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Any woman who plays perfectly, I'll marry.”
“You were drunk.”
“Mildly.”
“Arrogant.”
“Extremely.”
“Stupid.”
“I feel we're drifting from romance.”
I smiled.
Then he became serious.
“I spent a long time thinking I owed you a proposal because of that night.”
My smile disappeared.
“I don't want one you owe me.”
“I know.”
He reached into his pocket.
“That is why I waited until I didn't owe you anything.”
My heart began pounding.
He didn't kneel yet.
“Elena Carter, you proved something to me the night you sat at this piano.”
“That maids can play?”
“No.”
“That?”
“Never assume you understand someone's life because you know their job.”
My eyes filled.
“You changed mine.”
“Dominic—”
“Not because you saved me. Not because of your father. Not because of some ridiculous promise.”
He took my hand.
“Because you keep choosing who you are even when people try to tell you what you're allowed to be.”
Then he knelt.
This time there were no guests.
No laughter.
No challenge.
No audience.
“Will you marry me?”
I looked at the piano.
Then at him.
“You realize I made two mistakes during my last concerto.”
“I've adjusted my standards.”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Perfect.”
“No.”
I touched his face.
May you like
“Better than perfect.”
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