"They're going to expect things from me," I say, more to myself than to him. "Sophia mentioned helping with familyevents. Charlotte talked about estate activities. There are... responsibilities."
"Yes." He doesn't sugarcoat it. "Being a Dubovich wife isn't just a title. It's a role."
"A role I never interviewed for."
"No." He glances at me. "But you're here anyway. And from what I saw tonight, you're going to be good at it."
The certainty in his voice makes something warm bloom in my chest. He believes that. Really believes I can do this.
"I need to tell my parents," I say suddenly.
Leon goes still. "About us?"
"About everything." I turn to face him. "They're going to wonder why I'm not responding to texts. Why I'm suddenly... married. Living in a different place. With a different life."
"What are you going to tell them?"
Good question.
I try to imagine that phone call.Hi Mom, hi Dad. Remember how I went on a date Friday night? Well, funny story. I accidentally walked into an illegal arms deal and this Russian mobster saved my life by claiming me as his wife and now we're actually married and I'm probably going to have his baby soon. How's Florida?
Yeah. That's not going to work.
"I'll tell them the truth," I say slowly. "Most of it, anyway. That I met you, that it happened fast, that I'm happy."
"Are you?" The question is quiet. "Happy?"
The answer isn't as simple as I thought.
"I don't know if happy is the right word," I admit. "But I'm not... unhappy. Is that weird?"
"No." His mouth curves slightly. "It's honest."
We finally go inside. The house is warm, quiet, untouched since we left. Leon locks the door behind us and I find myself drifting to the living room, sinking onto the couch.
He follows, sitting beside me.
"What about work?" he asks. "Monday's coming."
Work.
Morrison & Associates. My cramped cubicle, my never-ending stack of case files, my boss who barely remembers my name despite the fact that I've worked there for a year now.
The paralegal job I took because it was safe. Because it paid the bills. Because it was what I was supposed to do with my law degree that I never actually wanted.
"I should call them," I say. "Tell them... what? That I'm quitting? That I need time off?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know." I drop my head back against the couch. "A week ago, I would have said I wanted to keep my job. It's stable, it's fine. But now..."
"Now?"
"Now it feels like going back would be going backward." I turn my head to look at him. "Is that crazy? I've been there since finishing college. I have benefits. A 401k. It's responsible."
"Fuck responsible." The words are blunt, surprising. "Do youwantto go back?"
Do I?
