Chapter 8 - The Empty Throne
For the next three months, Victor Rinaldi lived like a monk in a fortress.
He didn't touch alcohol. He didn't visit his clubs. He didn't take meetings after five o'clock.
The penthouse had undergone a radical transformation. The minimalist, intimidating black-and-chrome decor was gone, replaced by warm oak flooring, soft lighting, and pale linen upholstery. The master suite had been partitioned; Nora occupied the east wing with the twins, while Victor slept in the guest quarters down the hall, entering her space only when explicitly invited.
They were living as roommates under a federal-style truce.
Every morning at 6:00 A.M., Victor was in the nursery, sterilizing bottles, changing diapers, and rocking Leo while Nora caught two hours of uninterrupted sleep. He didn't complain about the exhaustion anymore. He welcomed it. Every aching muscle was a penance he willingly paid.
One evening in late spring, Nora found him in the kitchen, scrubbing formula off the counter with a sponge.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him in silence for a long moment. She wore a simple gray cotton dress, her hair cut shorter now, framing her face with a sharp, independent elegance.
“You missed a spot,” she said.
Victor dropped the sponge, turning around quickly, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Nora. I thought you were resting.” “I was. I heard noise.” She walked over to the counter, inspecting his work with a critical eye. “You’re using the wrong detergent on the bottles. The residue stays.”
“I’ll re-wash them,” Victor said immediately, stepping aside.
Nora didn't move away. She stood close enough that he could smell her real scent—soap, vanilla, and fresh laundry—without a trace of synthetic cherry blossom.
“The divorce papers are still in my desk drawer,” she said quietly. Victor’s chest tightened. He nodded once. “I know.” “I haven't filed them.” “I know that too.”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes searching his face for any sign of the old arrogance, the old impatience, the man who believed he could buy anything with a check or a threat.
“Why did you change the office?” she asked. “Your partners think you’re losing your grip.” “Let them think it,” Victor said evenly. “My partners don't change my children's diapers at three in the morning. My partners didn't wait three years to realize what they had.”
May you like
Nora reached out, her fingertips lightly brushing the sleeve of his shirt. It was the first time she had touched him voluntarily since the night in the cabin.
“It’s going to take years, Victor,” she whispered. “Every time the phone rings late, every time you have to step out of the room... I’m going to remember.” “I’ll wait,” Victor said without hesitation. “If it takes ten years, I’ll wait twenty. I broke the house, Nora. I’ll spend the rest of my life rebuilding it.”
