The evening air feels crisp against my skin as I walk alone through Grant Park, giving Quintus time to talk with my children without my presence affecting their conversation. Ava had suggested it—some kind of generational bonding ritual that apparently transcends centuries and cultures.
I should be nervous about what they’re discussing, but instead I feel peaceful. My children are good judges of character, and they’ve clearly accepted Quintus in ways they never accepted their father’s friends or colleagues. There’s something about his quiet competence that resonates with them, maybe because it’s so different from Scott’s need to dominate every interaction.
The park stretches around me, Chicago’s skyline glittering in the distance like scattered stars. Families walk past with children who should be in bed, couples hold hands on benches, and joggers trace paths lit by decorative lampposts.
A shimmer in the air catches my attention, heat-haze rising where the night is cool. Light gathers, then shapes itself into a woman’s form—flowing robes that ripple like starlight over water, a face both ancient and familiar. Fortuna. I know without being told.
“Daughter of courage,” her voice echoes inside me, “you have chosen growth over fear.”
I should be terrified. Instead, calm settles over me, protective and steady, as though I’ve stepped beneath a maternal hand.
“The wheel turns to offer new paths,” she says, her image flickering like candlelight. “Fear is wisdom when it guards you—buta chain when it prevents you. Love worthy of you will never ask you to disappear.”
The words strike deeper than any therapy session, cutting straight to the old wound of my shrinking self.
Warmth cloaks me, weightless and sure. “Your heart already knows the truth,” Fortuna whispers as her image begins to fade. “Trust what you have built.”
Then she is gone, leaving only water and starlight and the lapping of waves against the shore.
The hotel bar buzzes with typical evening energy when I find the four of them deep in conversation. They look comfortable together—Quintus listening with that focused attention he brings to everything, my children animated in a way I haven’t seen them in years.
“How did the bonding session go?” I ask, sliding into the empty chair Quintus pulls out for me.
“Your gladiator passed the test,” David announces with a grin that transforms his face from serious to boyish.
“Partner,” Ava corrects before I can. “And he more than passed. We love him.”
“What else did you talk about?” I ask, curious about their private conversation.
“Guy stuff,” Michael says vaguely, then grins. “And we may have invited him to Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And David’s wedding next spring.”
“You’re getting married?” I turn to my middle son in surprise.
“Jenny and I got engaged last month. We were going to tell you and Dad together, but…” David shrugs. “Current circumstances seemed like bad timing.”
“David, that’s wonderful!” I stand, go to him, and pull him into a hug, my heart swelling with joy. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Will you walk me down the aisle?” he asks. “I know it’s not traditional, but you’re the parent who actually showed up for everything that mattered.”
Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them. “I would be honored.”
“Good. Because Jenny specifically requested you. She said you’re the strongest woman she knows.” David glances at Quintus. “Though she’s excited to meet the guy who makes you even stronger.”
“I don’t make her stronger,” Quintus corrects gently. “I just create space for her strength to flourish.”
“Same result,” Ava observes pragmatically. “Mom’s been a completely different person since she met you. Confident, happy, taking risks. It’s amazing to watch.”
We talk for another hour about family plans, future visits, and the logistics of integrating a gladiator into modern family holidays. By the time we finally say goodnight, I feel like we’ve crossed an important threshold.
My children accept Quintus. More than that, they like and respect him in ways they never did their father.
As Quintus’s hand finds mine beneath the table, I keep Fortuna to myself for now. That blessing can be ours later. Even without it, I know this much: I’ve already won the only approval that matters—my own.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Quintus
The morning light streaming through our hotel makes Nicole’s normally brown hair gleam with copper strands as she stands before the mirror, trying to tame it into submission. I watch from the bed, still amazed that I’m allowed to witness these intimate moments—the way she bites her lower lip when concentrating, how she tilts her head to study her reflection.
