Chapter 14 - NO MORE PAPER MARRIAGE
The annulment hearing lasted eleven minutes.
That was almost insulting considering how much trouble the fake marriage had caused.
A family court judge in Manhattan reviewed the emergency religious ceremony, the unsigned civil paperwork, the absence of my consent, and Dominic’s sworn statement that no legal marriage had ever been completed.
Then she looked over her glasses at him.
“Mr. Rossi, are you in the habit of marrying unconscious women?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Dominic looked solemn.
Too solemn.
The judge turned to me.
“Ms. Bennett, do you understand that today’s order confirms there was never a valid civil marriage?”
“Yes.”
“And you are requesting that any records suggesting otherwise be corrected?”
“Yes.”
“Granted.”
Gavel.
Done.
Outside the courtroom, Dominic handed me a folder.
“What is this?”
“Corrected records.”
“That was fast.”
“I prepared.”
“Of course you did.”
I opened it.
No Mrs. Rossi.
No spouse designation.
No emergency proxy.
Just Mara Bennett.
My own name.
I had not realized how much I needed to see it.
Dominic watched my face.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then he turned toward the elevators.
“Where are you going?”
“Office.”
“That’s it?”
He stopped.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.”
“A speech?”
“Maybe.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“You wanted the annulment.”
“I did.”
“So I am respecting it.”
I stared at him.
Then I laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mara.”
“You are so literal when you’re trying to behave.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Is that criticism?”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“It’s adorable.”
He looked offended.
Good.
I kissed his cheek and walked toward the elevator.
He followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Lunch.”
“With?”
“You, if you stop interrogating me.”
That was how we celebrated no longer being married.
With sandwiches.
My life had become strange enough that this felt romantic.
By winter, I had moved into a small townhouse in Brooklyn near my law school.
Not Dominic’s townhouse.
Mine.
I bought it partly with money from the hotel’s liability settlement after an investigation found security failures during the shooting, partly with savings, and partly with a mortgage I insisted on qualifying for without Dominic.
He hated the interest rate.
I loved the paperwork.
My mother moved into an apartment three blocks away.
She said living with me would damage our relationship.
I said living with her would damage my sanity.
We agreed lovingly.
Isabella visited constantly.
She pretended she came for my mother.
She came to inspect me.
“You’re too thin.”
“I was shot.”
“Months ago.”
“I study twelve hours a day.”
“Eat more pasta.”
“Is this how Rossi women communicate?”
“Yes.”
School was brutal.
I loved it.
I was older than some classmates and poorer than most.
I also had the advantage of having once cross-examined a mob boss with a gun pointed at me, which made cold-calling in contracts class less terrifying.
Dominic visited twice a week.
Sometimes more.
Never without asking.
He kept clothes at my house only after I gave him a drawer.
He hated the drawer because it was small.
I refused to upgrade.
“Character building,” I said.
“I have character.”
“You have suits.”
“Expensive suits.”
“My point.”
Rossi Holdings changed too.
Dominic sold interests in several nightclubs and private-security companies tied to people he no longer trusted.
He brought in outside compliance counsel.
He opened books that Antonio had kept closed.
Some old associates left.
Some threatened.
A few investigations followed.
Dominic cooperated more than anyone expected and less than prosecutors wanted.
I did not ask for details he could not legally share.
He did not ask me to approve choices I was not responsible for.
That boundary saved us.
One evening in March, he arrived at my townhouse with a bruised knuckle.
I noticed immediately.
“What happened?”
“Door.”
I stared.
“Did the door have a face?”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
He sighed.
“Enzo and I removed someone from a warehouse.”
“Politely?”
“Eventually.”
I crossed my arms.
“This is what you mean by restructuring?”
His jaw tightened.
“He was threatening employees.”
“Call police.”
“They were thirty minutes away.”
“And?”
“And I acted.”
I looked at the bruised hand.
The old world remained inside him.
Maybe always would.
I did not want a sanitized version of Dominic built only to please me.
I wanted honesty.
“Did you enjoy it?” I asked.
He looked surprised.
“No.”
“Would you do it again?”
“If someone was in immediate danger.”
“That’s different from revenge.”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
He blinked.
“Okay?”
“I asked. You answered.”
He studied me.
“You don’t want to change me?”
“I want you to change what you choose to change.”
His expression softened.
“That sounds familiar.”
“My father was repetitive.”
That night, he stayed.
This time, we did more than sleep.
There was no dramatic soundtrack.
No danger outside.
No ring.
No priest.
Just two people who had spent months learning how to ask.
Afterward, Dominic lay beside me with one hand resting near—not on—the scars along my ribs.
“You can touch them,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His fingertips traced one scar gently.
His face changed.
“I hate these.”
“I don’t.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“They’re ugly.”
“They’re mine.”
“That doesn’t make them beautiful.”
“No.”
I thought about it.
“They are proof I lived through something I should not have had to live through.”
He looked at me.
“Not the same as gratitude.”
“Exactly.”
He kissed the scar near my shoulder.
Not worship.
Not apology.
Just tenderness.
A month later, I received an internship offer from a legal nonprofit representing whistleblowers and public corruption witnesses.
I screamed so loudly my neighbor knocked on the wall.
My mother cried.
Isabella sent flowers the size of a refrigerator.
Enzo sent a cake that said CONGRATS, COUNSELOR, three years early.
Dominic sent nothing.
I called him.
“You forgot.”
“No.”
“Everyone sent something.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Open your front door.”
I did.
He stood outside holding two coffees and a paper bag from my favorite bakery.
“No flowers?” I asked.
“You hate giant gestures when everyone else is watching.”
I smiled.
“You remembered.”
“I keep files.”
I pointed at him.
“Still not funny.”
He kissed me.
Then he handed me coffee.
For the first time in my life, the future did not look safe.
May you like
It looked chosen.
That was better.
