“I can’t undo the past, Della. But I can write the future"
Tears prick her eyes. She squeezes my hands back, her voice thick with emotion.
“Dorian, I…”
I release her hands, just to cup her beautiful face in my hands, and place a gentle, silencing kiss over her full lips. I have to do this now, no interruptions.
"Hop on the counter, my love,"I tell her as I gesture to the large marble island.
She looks at me, confused but trusting. “What?”
“Up,” I whisper.
I place my hands on her waist—ignoring the protest of my stitches—and help her boost herself up onto the cool marble, settling above me.
"Dorian, what are you doing?" she asks, her breath hitching.
"I can't kneel for you right now," I say, my voice raw, the physical pain nothing compared to the swell of emotion in my chest. "But I will always put you above me. You are my sky, Della."
I look up at her, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the velvet box.
"I don't want to waste another second," I say, my voice steady now. "I’ve wasted five years. I’ve wasted weeks since you came back. I’m done waiting. I want to see you flying in the swing, dancing in the kitchen while you cook. I want the ordinary, beautiful life we talked about. I want all of you."
I open the box David and Flor brought this morning.
The diamond catches the sunlight flooding through the garden doors. I reach for her trembling hand.
"Della Toma, my love, will you be mine? Forever?"
* * *
Della
The tears spill out, hot and wild, streaking down my face.
I look at this man—this powerful, broken, beautiful man who once shattered my heart. He is offering me everything: his name, his home, his future.
But he is asking the wrong question.
"No," I whisper.
I smile. A radiant, secretive, terrified smile.
Dorian freezes and I can see the color draining from his face.
His eyes—God, the pain in them—it’s like I just ripped the heart right out of his chest. His voice catches.
"Della?" He sounds lost, desperate, his hands shaking on the counter as he starts to pull away.
I don't let him. I grip his wrist, holding him there with me.
"No," I repeat softly.
I guide his hand, sliding it under my t-shirt, pressing it against the slight curve of my lower belly. His hand is huge and warm, and suddenly he’s so still.
His eyes widen, glued to where his palm rests on my skin. You can almost hear his mind spinning, trying to make sense of what I’m telling him without words.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his.
