Once we’re decent again, we get into a car and drive.
Matteo won’t tell me where we’re going. That alone should have been my first warning. My husband doesn’t do surprises unless they matter.
When the car finally slows, I look up and my breath catches.
The gates open onto…
“A garden?” I whisper.
But it’s not just a garden. It’s a botanical garden, spanning several acres in every direction. It looks like the kind of place I’ve seen only in textbooks and documentaries. A place people write papers about. A living archive of greenery, pulsing and breathing and impossibly alive.
Which is impossible, because I’d have known if something like this existed in New York. Right?
“It’s yours,” Matteo says simply.
I turn to him, stunned. “What do you mean,mine?”
“I mean I had it built for you. Your name is on the deed. Your research program runs here. Your students will train here.” He watches my face carefully. “This is your legacy.”
It takes a full minute for my mind to catch up. Built for me? All of this? Impossible. It can’t be. Who would even do something like this?
But then I see it. The tag at the entrance.
Brooklyn’s Rose.
They’re my names. Both my names. The one Matteo made me like again and the one I chose for myself.
Happy tears burn the back of my eyes. Matteo had this garden built for me.
Who would do something like this?
My husband. He would. And he did.
Tears burn instantly. I press my hands to my mouth, overwhelmed by the weight of it.
“I wanted to give you something that couldn’t be taken,” he says quietly. “Something rooted.”
I throw my arms around him without thinking. He catches me easily, holding me close while I shake with it, laughter and tears tangled together.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you, Matteo. For everything. For not giving up on me.”
His arms go tight around me. “Never, little flower.”
I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands still fisted in the lapels of his jacket. My heart is pounding, but not from the tears this time. From the secret I’ve been holding onto all evening, tucked carefully beneath the joy and the shock and the overwhelming gratitude.
“I have something for you too,” I say softly.
He arches a brow, a familiar mix of curiosity and indulgence. “That so?”
I nod, suddenly nervous in a way I haven’t been in years. I take one of his hands and guide it to my stomach, pressing his palm there deliberately.
“For the last ten years,” I say, voice steady despite the tears threatening again, “you’ve given me roots. A future. A legacy.” I swallow. “Now I get to give you another piece of it.”
It takes him a second.
Then he stills.
His breath catches, sharp and unmistakable. His hand spreads against me like he’s afraid to move it, eyes snapping up to mine, searching.
