Not the brittle quiet of fear or waiting, but the softer kind. The kind that settles in places where people are being taken care of. Sunlight filters through tall windows and lands on pale floors, warming them. I’ve been here many times over the past year, but today feels different.
Today matters.
I kneel in front of Mr. Price’s wheelchair and make sure I’m at eye level. He looks smaller than he did the first time I met him. Age has bent him inward, folded time into his shoulders and hands. But his eyes—there’s more light in them now. Less fog. Like something inside him has begun to stitch itself back together.
Coral being safe did that.
It wasn’t easy, getting her out. It took months, blood, patience, favors that can never be repaid. The kind of work you don’t talk about afterward. The kind that lingers.
But she’s alive. Free. Healing.
I promised Amber we would bring her home, and we did.
With some help.
“Mr. Price,” I say quietly. “I’m Giovanni.”
His gaze drifts, then settles. It takes a moment, but he focuses on me.
“I know who you are,” he says.
Something tightens in my chest.
“I’ve come to ask you something important,” I continue. “And I wanted to do it properly.”
I swallow once.
“I love your daughter. And if she’ll have me, I want to marry her.”
He blinks. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on the arms of the chair.
“I promise I’ll treat her right,” I say. “I won’t take her away from you. From your wife. You’ll always have her. I swear it.”
For a moment, I think he hasn’t heard me. His eyes drift again, unfocused, the silence stretching longer than is comfortable.
I stay where I am.
Then his mouth curves in a slow, careful, and trembling way. His eyes fill.
“Thank you,” he says. “For asking.”
I instantly understand what he mean, and the words hit harder than any blow ever has.
Georg Pavlov never asked. He took.
And no matter what kind of man the world says I am, that is not who I choose to be.
I nod once, because it’s all I can manage.
Outside, the air smells like grass and late afternoon. Amber is waiting for me near the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. She looks up the moment she sees me.
In the distance, Coral sits on a park bench, sunlight in her hair. She still watches people carefully. Still flinches sometimes. But she laughs more now. Heals, a little more every day.
Someone sits beside her. A man I trust with my life.
Amber searches my face. “How did it go?”
“Good,” I say.
