Chapter 10 - Dawn on the Lake
Three weeks later.
The snow that had smothered Chicago during the siege of Lake Forest had begun to melt, giving way to the cold, crisp clarity of early March.
The scandal had detonated across the city like a nuclear bomb. Marcus Kane’s safe in his Loop office had yielded enough evidence to dismantle not only Julian Vance’s criminal syndicate, but half of the corrupt politicians in Cook County who had protected him. Vance was currently housed in a federal detention facility under twenty-four-hour surveillance, facing multiple life sentences without the possibility of parole.
Dorian’s legal team, bolstered by his status as a victim of a coordinated home invasion, had secured total clearance for his actions. The Cross name was clean. Cleaner than it had ever been in three generations.
The master bedroom had been completely restored, though the faint scent of fresh paint and wood polish still lingered in the air.
I stood on the expansive terrace overlooking Lake Michigan, wrapped in a thick wool sweater, a warm mug of herbal tea cradled between my hands. The morning sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the icy blue water in strokes of pale gold and soft rose.
A pair of strong, warm arms slipped around my waist from behind.
Dorian pulled me back against his chest, resting his chin on the crown of my head. His body was still healing—his left shoulder was heavily taped, and a long, pale scar ran along his jawline—but the deadly, lethal tension that had defined him for six months was gone.
His large hand drifted down, flattening over my stomach. At nine weeks, there was barely the faintest swell beneath my sweater, but Dorian touched it as if it were the most sacred, fragile relic on earth.
“Sterling says the heartbeat is up to one hundred and sixty,” Dorian murmured, his deep voice vibrating through my back. “He says the baby is growing fast.”
“Sterling says you’re hovering,” I retorted softly, smiling as I leaned my head back against his shoulder. “He told me yesterday that you called him at two in the morning to ask if my craving for salt and vinegar chips was medically concerning.”
“A father has a right to be informed,” Dorian said defensively, though I could hear the faint trace of amusement in his tone.
I turned around within the circle of his embrace, looking up at him. The gray eyes that had once looked upon the world with cold, ruthless detachment were soft, filled with a quiet, profound reverence that made my breath hitch.
“I have something for you,” he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
It was the original divorce decree—the one I had almost signed three weeks ago, now wrinkled and stained with a faint ring from an old coffee cup.
Dorian held it up between two fingers. With his other hand, he pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, flicking the wheel. A bright orange flame sprang to life.
He didn't ask for permission. He touched the flame to the corner of the paper, watching as the blue-and-orange fire consumed the legal jargon, the asset divisions, and the signatures of attorneys who had tried to tear our lives apart.
He dropped the burning ash into a stone urn on the terrace, watching it turn to gray dust on the cold flagstones.
“We never spoke of what happens next,” I said quietly, searching his eyes.
The city of Chicago stretched out to the south, a sprawling labyrinth of steel, glass, and power. Dorian was still the head of Cross Maritime. He was still the most feared man on the Great Lakes. The shadows of his world would never vanish entirely; men like Dorian Cross did not simply retire into quiet obscurity. There would always be threats. There would always be rivals watching for a misstep.
“What happens next,” Dorian said, cupping my cheek in his warm, scarred palm, “is that we build something better than the ashes I dragged you through.”
“Can you do that?” I asked, my heart hammering with an honest, lingering fear. “Can a man like you ever truly walk in the light?”
Dorian looked out over the lake, where the sun was finally breaking completely free of the horizon, casting an endless highway of light across the dark water.
“I don't need to walk in the light, Clara,” he said, looking back down at me, his gaze fierce, steady, and full of an unyielding, unbreakable promise. “I only need to keep the darkness away from you and our child. If the monsters come again, they will find me waiting at the gate. But inside these walls... I am only yours.”
He leaned down, pressing his lips to mine.
May you like
It wasn't a desperate kiss born of terror or goodbye. It was slow, warm, and filled with the promise of a hundred quiet mornings yet to come.
The wind off Lake Michigan was cold, but between his arms, standing on the edge of a new life with our child’s heartbeat fluttering between us, the winter had finally ended.
