I force myself to ask the question that's been eating at me since he walked back into my life. "Did it at least work out for you?"
"What?"
"Taking over the family. Running things with Stellan." I can't bring myself to ask the other question—if he found someone else, if he moved on, if he built a life with a woman who could give him everything I couldn't. I think he must not have if he's here, but I need to know if any of it was worth it. "Did you—did your uncle let you take over?"
His laugh is sharp and bitter. "Let is a strong word. Vittorio died a year ago, but yes, he left it all to me."
I hadn't known that. The information hits me sideways, unexpected. "I'm sorry. I didn't?—"
"Don't be. He was an manipulative old bastard who cared more about bloodlines than people." He shrugs, the gesture dismissive. "I've been running everything with Stellan since. Making all the decisions."
All the decisions.
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning. If he's in charge now, if there's no uncle pushing him to marry strategically, to produce heirs, to sacrifice love for duty?—
"So you got what you wanted," I manage.
"Did I?" His eyes find mine, holding them. "Because from where I'm standing, I spent years stuck here while the only person who ever mattered walked away thinking she was doing me a favor."
The accusation stings because it's true. Because I did walk away. Because maybe I was wrong about everything.
"I thought you'd move on." My voice cracks. "Find someone who could give you a family."
"I had someone who could give me a family. She left."
"Declan—"
"You and Maeve are a family, Zola. I already told you that." He steps closer, Maeve content between us. "And if you ever thought for one second that I wanted anything in this life without you?" He shakes his head. "That's never once been true."
The confession breaks something in my chest. Because I'm the same. Because I spent all that time in New York working dead-end bartending jobs and telling myself I was fine when really I was just waiting for something that would never come.
Waiting for him.
"I didn't either," I whisper. "I did everything for you."
Something shifts in his expression—relief maybe, or hope. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "Turns out it's hard to forget someone that you fell so hard for."
"That's why I'm doing this," he says softly. "Because it'simpossibleto forget."
"I should have talked to you," I admit. "Instead of just leaving. Should have—should have trusted you to make your own choices."
"Yeah. You should have." He shifts Maeve to his shoulder, studying me. "But you're talking to me now. So let's start there."
He stays.
All day, helping me with inventory that needs doing. Boxes of new arrivals pile up in the back room, and normally I'd tackle them alone while Maeve napped in her carrier. But today Declan's here, unpacking shipments and checking titles against order forms while I catalog everything in the system.
"You don't have to do this," I tell him for the third time.
"I know." He doesn't look up from the box he's opening. "But you need the help and I'm already here."
Maeve's in her playpen behind the counter, surrounded by the toys Declan's bought her over the past two weeks. She's discovered the stacking cups today—bright primary colors that nest inside each other—and she's completely fascinated by them. Grabs one, shakes it, throws it across the playpen with a delighted shriek.
"She's got an arm," Declan observes, grinning.
"She gets it from Nia. Owen used to say she could throw a football halfway across the park." The words hurt to say. Everything about Nia hurts still, this raw ache that won't fade.
