Chapter 9 - The Ninth Proposal
Saturday arrived with a brilliant, crystal-clear winter dawn that set the iced towers of Chicago ablaze with gold.
The society pages were filled with the scandal: *Cole Logistics Founder Ousted Amid Financial Probe; Blake Family Secures Custody of Trust Beneficiary.* Vanessa Blake had vanished from the city, Emma was on a private jet heading to her grandparents’ estate in Ohio where she would finally receive legitimate care and therapy, and Adrian Cole was confined to his family’s ancestral home in Lake Forest under federal supervision.
My agency had already transitioned. Grant Capital had formally retained Vance Strategic Media to oversee the brand integration of their new sixty-billion-dollar clean-energy logistics portfolio. My team had doubled in size overnight, moving into sleek new offices on Wacker Drive overlooking the river.
At five o'clock that evening, I walked out of my new office building into the crisp evening air. The city was glowing with holiday lights, the smell of roasted chestnuts and winter air filling the street.
Standing across the plaza, shivering under a dark wool coat that looked three sizes too large for his sunken frame, was Adrian.
He had bypassed my security by waiting on the public street. His hair was damp from the falling snow, his face hollow, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. In his trembling hands, he carried a small black velvet box.
He saw me, and a desperate, sickly hope flared in his sunken eyes. He stepped across the pavement, his boots crunching in the slush.
"Maya," he breathed, his breath coming in white clouds.
Two of my corporate security guards immediately stepped forward, but I raised a hand, stopping them. I wanted this conversation to happen in the cold, clear open.
Adrian dropped to both knees directly onto the slushy sidewalk, completely oblivious to the pedestrians who turned to stare in shock at the fallen titan of Cole Logistics.
He clicked the velvet box open. Inside sat a massive, ten-carat cushion-cut diamond ring, sparkling under the municipal streetlamps.
"Marry me," Adrian whispered, tears carving clean lines through the grime on his pale cheeks. "Right now. We’ll find a justice of the peace. I don't care about the company. I don't care about the money. I don't care about my family. I only care about you. You were the only real thing in my life, Maya. Don't let me drown."
I looked down at the ring. It was larger, more expensive, and infinitely more pathetic than the one he had given me four years ago.
"Adrian," I said, my voice gentle with finality. "Stand up. You’re embarrassing yourself."
"Not until you say yes," he sobbed. "Number nine, Maya. Please. Give me number nine."
"Do you know what number eight was, Adrian?" I asked, looking down at him.
He looked up, sniffing, confused.
"Number eight wasn't just another postponed wedding," I said. "Number eight was the mirror you held up to my face so I could finally see how little you valued me. You didn't stop marrying me because of emergencies. You stopped marrying me because you knew that every time you walked away, I would still be sitting on that bench when you returned."
"I’m here now!" Adrian cried, raising the box toward me. "I returned!"
"No," I replied, taking a step backward into the warm light of the lobby entrance. "You didn't return. You just ran out of places to hide."
I looked at him for the last time. There was no hatred left in my heart. Hatred required energy, and Adrian Cole was no longer worth a single calorie of my soul.
"Goodbye, Adrian," I said.
May you like
I turned around and walked through the revolving doors, leaving him on his knees in the Chicago slush, clutching an open box to an audience of strangers.
***
