Chương 8 - THE PINKY PROMISE
By the time I returned to Kian's estate, my stepmother's blue folder had become the most valuable thing I had never seen. Detective Ruiz had requested the storage facility's records, and Mara was preparing a court application for the trust-account documents. Meanwhile, Regina's lawyer insisted the folder was lost, probably thrown away during a move.
I was tired of people losing things whenever the truth became inconvenient.
Zayn, however, had planned a surprise that required more immediate attention. He met me at the entrance wearing a tiny suit, a burgundy bow tie, and an expression of fierce concentration. Captain Buttons had been dressed in a matching ribbon. His father sat across the drawing room, still in his work clothes, pretending to be absorbed in a book he hadn't turned a page of.
"Miss Aurora," Zayn announced, "I have a serious question."
"Should I be concerned?"
"Probably." He went down on one knee and opened a little black ring box. Inside was an enormous plastic ring shaped like a strawberry. "Will you be my pretend wife again? I have updated the agreement."
A laugh escaped me before I could catch it. "What are the new terms?"
"No doctors on Fridays. Pancakes when somebody's sad. And you can go anywhere you want, but you have to tell us if you need help."
I pressed my palms together to keep from crying. Across the room, Kian's hand covered his mouth. He looked equal parts exasperated and moved.
"Those sound like excellent family rules," I said. "Except doctors are allowed whenever you need them."
Zayn made a face. "My lawyer said you'd negotiate."
"Who is your lawyer?"
"Mrs. Alvarez."
"Then I never stood a chance."
I accepted the plastic ring, slid it onto the only finger it fit, and told him a pretend promise was something we could share without treating each other like possessions. He nodded as if he'd understood every word, then wrapped his arms around me so tightly that I could barely breathe.
Kian approached after Zayn raced off to announce our renewed arrangement to the cook. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Through the windows, Manhattan glimmered beneath the late-afternoon clouds.
"I'm sorry," Kian said.
"For what?"
"For allowing my son to hire my entire household as accomplices."
"You've lost control of your organization."
"Apparently. Mrs. Alvarez ordered flowers. My security director has been asked to drive a teddy bear to a tailor."
We laughed, but the warmth between us made the silence afterward difficult. He lifted his hand toward mine and stopped before touching me.
"May I?" he asked.
I offered him the hand with the strawberry ring. He examined it as seriously as though it were a priceless diamond.
"Bold choice," he said. "I'm a little jealous."
My pulse betrayed me. "You'd look ridiculous in strawberry jewelry."
"I've survived worse reputational damage."
He let go first. That small courtesy stayed with me longer than any flirtation could have.
Later that day, Mara brought news. Regina's storage-box authorization had been notarized by an employee of a firm that handled routine paperwork for one of Matteo Voss's holding companies. It was still circumstantial, but the connections were accumulating in a direction nobody could ignore. Nadia had obtained records showing the blue folder was moved to a warehouse office used by Meridian shortly after Regina collected it.
"Does that mean Matteo stole it?" I asked.
"No," Nadia replied. "It means we're establishing where it went. Don't skip the middle because you're ready for an ending."
I was more ready than she knew. I'd carried a suitcase for months because Regina could make me lose jobs, housing, and sleep with a single phone call. I wanted a world where I could build something and not wait for it to be taken away.
That night, after Zayn went upstairs, I told Kian I was applying to the pastry program at a community culinary school. I planned to pay for the course with a grant and whatever I earned from temporary work, not with his money.
"Would you tell me if you needed a reference?" he asked.
"Only if you'd actually eaten my baking."
"The cinnamon rolls are persuasive evidence."
"You're biased. Your son loves me."
His gaze held mine. "He isn't the only one who cares about you."
The room seemed to lose every sound except the clock near the fireplace. I could've leaned toward him. He might've done the same. Instead, I asked the question that had been waiting since the morning.
"What did Elena know about Meridian? All of it, Kian. Not the version you think I can handle."
He took a breath. "She suspected my organization was being used to hide payments for Tony's operations. I looked at the reports she showed me. Matteo said they were ordinary transport reimbursements, and I believed him."
"Because he was your friend?"
"Because believing him meant I could go home and pretend the business was changing faster than it was."
It wasn't an apology. It was worse: an explanation I believed. I thought about my mother writing that kindness was not surrender, and how easily I'd begun surrendering questions in exchange for feeling safe.
"You'll have to tell Nadia everything," I said.
"I will."
"Even if it hurts you?"
"Especially then."
Before bed, Zayn called down from the upstairs landing and asked whether adults could break promises by accident. I climbed three steps so we could talk without waking the household. He wanted to know whether the pretend marriage would still count if I moved into my own apartment one day. I told him the important promise was that I cared about him, not that we lived under the same roof or wore matching rings. He turned that over in his mind, then asked if I would ever learn to make ice cream. I said that sounded like a much more difficult commitment. He made me promise to try.
As I came downstairs, I found Kian standing beside the untouched fireplace. He hadn't heard everything, but he had heard enough. "You don't have to promise him a permanent place in his life just because he wants one," he said. I considered how carefully he was giving me permission to walk away. "I know," I replied. "That's why I'm beginning to want one."
May you like
The following morning, I arrived at my culinary-school interview wearing a clean blue blouse and the strawberry ring hidden in my coat pocket. Halfway through a practical assessment, my phone vibrated with a message from Mara. She had one sentence for me, and I read it three times before I could move.
The blue folder has been located. It contains Elena Moretti's signed statement, and your father witnessed it.
