“Yes.”
“And if I walk away . . . ”
“You do so with stability,” he finished.
I swallowed hard. This wasn’t control. This wasn’t ownership. This was . . . partnership, or at least something close to it.
Now, if I stayed, it wouldn’t be because I had to. It would be because I chose to.
43
RAPHAEL
Isat there, watching her. Waiting.
For the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I had no strategy left. No additional move to make. No lever to pull.
Everything was on the table. Literally.
The paperwork sat between us, proof of what I had done, what I was willing to give, what I was trying—perhaps clumsily—to correct.
It had to be enough. It had to be. Because I did not know what I would do if it wasn’t.
I could dismantle companies.
I could restructure entire industries.
I could not lose her.
She turned another page.
Her face remained unreadable.
An unfamiliar sensation pressed in on my chest. Helplessness. I did not like it.
I leaned forward slightly, unable to remain silent any longer.
“Belle, please.” My voice was lower than I intended. “I will give you anything you want. Just stay with me.”
The words felt inadequate the moment they left me. Too transactional. Too close to the very thing she had pushed back against. But they were honest.
“Please.”
She stilled.
Then, slowly, she looked up at me. And something in her expression cracked.
“You would give me my own company,” she said quietly.
I shook my head. “No.” I stepped closer, unable to stay behind the desk any longer. “Ma belle,” I said softly, “I would give you everything.”
The truth settled between us, undeniable.
“Because without you,” I continued, my voice tightening despite my control, “it is all meaningless.”
That was the part I had not said before. The part I had not allowed myself to fully acknowledge. “I love you,” I said. “And I refuse to lose someone I love again.”
Silence followed.
