Chapter 7 - THE FIRST TIME GRACE ENTERED DOMINIC’S HOUSE, SHE KEPT HER OWN KEY
Their first date was terrible.
Grace told Margaret immediately.
Dominic had chosen a restaurant so exclusive the menu listed no prices.
Grace hated it.
He arrived with two security men.
She hated that more.
The waiter called Dominic “Mr. DeLuca” every forty seconds.
By dessert, Grace felt as if she were attending a merger.
Outside, Dominic asked:
“How bad?”
“Do you want honesty?”
“That is apparently your defining trait.”
“Four out of ten.”
He looked genuinely offended.
“Four?”
“The pasta was good.”
“That’s one point.”
“The dessert was excellent.”
“Two.”
“You didn’t murder anyone.”
He stared.
“Three.”
“And you asked before ordering wine.”
“Four?”
“Exactly.”
Dominic laughed.
A real laugh.
Grace liked it too much.
Second date:
Small neighborhood restaurant Grace chose.
No visible security.
The security existed.
Dominic admitted two men were across the street.
Grace allowed it because one of his former business associates had recently been indicted and threats remained possible.
Reality mattered.
They ate pizza.
Dominic got sauce on his shirt.
Grace laughed.
Eight out of ten.
Third date:
Celia came down with a fever.
Grace canceled.
Dominic sent no flowers.
No private doctor uninvited.
He texted:
Need anything?
Grace:
No.
Dominic:
Okay.
Nine out of ten.
They moved slowly.
Painfully slowly according to Margaret.
“Before I die.”
she told Grace.
“Could one of you kiss the other?”
Grace nearly dropped her tea.
“You are not dying.”
“Everyone is dying.”
“Manipulative.”
“Yes.”
Dominic kissed Grace three months later.
Not because Margaret demanded efficiency.
They were standing outside Grace’s apartment.
He had walked her upstairs.
No guards in the hallway.
He stopped.
“Can I kiss you?”
Grace smiled.
“The dangerous Dominic DeLuca asks?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like an answer before doing something involving your face.”
Fair.
“Yes.”
The kiss was quiet.
No orchestra.
No billionaire spectacle.
Grace went inside afterward.
Dominic left.
No assumptions.
Then life became complicated.
Dating Dominic meant photographs.
Articles.
Speculation.
One tabloid called Grace:
FROM BANQUET TRAY TO MAFIA THRONE
She wanted to set the newspaper on fire.
Dominic’s public relations team drafted a statement.
Grace rejected it.
“What do you want?”
he asked.
“Nothing.”
“They’re insulting you.”
“Then they’re insulting me.”
“I survived twenty-seven years before your communications department.”
He accepted that.
Then one reporter wrote that Celia’s cancer treatment had been secretly funded by DeLuca money.
False.
Grace became furious enough to sue.
Her lawyer obtained a correction.
Dominic offered to pay legal fees.
Grace said no.
Then looked at the invoice.
Then:
“Half.”
Dominic nodded.
“Half.”
Written agreement.
No secret reimbursement.
By the second year of their relationship, Grace spent occasional weekends at Dominic’s house.
Not the giant Lake Forest estate people imagined.
He had sold that property after restructuring part of his life.
His primary home was a large but not absurd residence near the city.
Grace kept her apartment.
Dominic never asked when she would move in.
Then one Sunday, she brought three boxes.
He stared.
“What?”
“I’m moving some things.”
“Some?”
“Do not ruin this.”
He immediately shut his mouth.
Grace maintained her own key.
Her own bank account.
Her own office.
When Dominic suggested adding her to household security systems, she agreed only if she controlled her own access information.
He said yes.
No arguments.
One year later, Celia’s cancer returned.
Grace’s world stopped.
Treatment was more aggressive.
Celia was exhausted.
Terrified.
Grace went into old survival mode.
Work harder.
Sleep less.
Control everything.
Dominic watched for three weeks.
Then said:
“You’re doing the thing.”
Grace snapped:
“What thing?”
“The thing where you turn fear into spreadsheets.”
“Spreadsheets are useful.”
“You slept three hours.”
“I’m fine.”
“No.”
Grace’s eyes hardened.
“Do not tell me what I am.”
Dominic stopped.
Old instinct.
Protection becoming control.
He corrected.
“I’m worried.”
Better.
“Do you want help?”
Grace looked at him.
Every part of her wanted to say no.
Because once, needing money meant being powerless.
Because once, every bill felt like evidence she was failing her mother.
Because receiving help from Dominic still sometimes woke the old fear of debt.
She took a breath.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Meals.”
“For Mom.”
“Transportation after chemo when I can’t leave work.”
“And…”
She hated the next part.
“Help me find an independent insurance advocate.”
Not:
Pay the bill.
Information.
Logistics.
Support.
Dominic nodded.
“Done.”
Then stopped.
“Sorry.”
“What?”
“I mean I’ll find options.”
“You choose.”
Grace smiled.
“Better.”
Celia responded well to treatment.
Again.
Remission returned.
Again.
No one called it a miracle.
Doctors.
Medicine.
Luck.
Hard work.
Grace appreciated accuracy.
Margaret, meanwhile, had become almost family.
She and Celia spent holidays together.
Their favorite activity remained embarrassing their children.
At Christmas, Margaret told everyone how Dominic cried the first time Grace ignored his text for six hours.
Dominic denied it.
Grace had screenshots.
Celia laughed until she coughed.
Then Dominic proposed.
Wrongly.
He did not produce a ring.
Good.
He asked while they washed dishes after Christmas dinner.
“Do you want marriage?”
Grace stopped drying a plate.
“Someday?”
“With anyone?”
“With me ideally.”
She smiled.
“You’re improving.”
“That is not an answer.”
Grace thought.
“Yes.”
His hands stilled.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I want marriage.”
“With me?”
She stared.
“Do you want me to change my answer?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
Relief.
Grace pointed the dish towel at him.
“This is not a proposal.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He waited seven months before actually proposing.
No gala.
No restaurant.
No mother hiding nearby.
He asked in Grace’s old apartment.
She had kept the lease for a year after moving in with him because letting it go frightened her.
Dominic never complained.
The day she finally decided to give it up, they stood inside the empty living room.
The same room where Celia once worried about medication bills.
Dominic looked around.
“You sure?”
Grace nodded.
“Yes.”
Then he took a small ring box from his pocket.
She stared.
“You planned this.”
“I hoped.”
“Dangerous.”
“I’m told optimism is legal.”
He knelt.
“Grace Miller.”
Her eyes filled.
“You stood between my mother and someone powerful when you thought nobody important was watching.”
“You told the truth when it could hurt me.”
“You refused my money when you needed it because you needed to know your choices were yours.”
“You taught me help is only help if the other person gets to choose it.”
His voice broke slightly.
“I don’t want to rescue you.”
“I want to build a life where neither of us needs rescuing from the other.”
Grace cried.
Then laughed.
“Margaret wrote that.”
Dominic looked offended.
“She edited one sentence.”
“I knew it.”
“Grace.”
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
She held out her hand.
Dominic slipped the ring onto her finger.
Then stood.
Grace kissed him.
The apartment remained empty around them.
May you like
But for the first time, leaving it did not feel like losing safety.
It felt like carrying safety with her.
