Chapter 10 - MARA REFUSED SEBASTIAN’S FIRST PROPOSAL BEFORE HE EVEN MADE IT
Dating Sebastian after prison was less dramatic than everyone imagined.
Mostly.
He still had security concerns.
He still knew politicians.
He still owned enough legitimate property to make normal restaurant reservations absurd.
But he was learning.
Our fourth date, he sent a car without asking.
I took subway.
He stared when I arrived.
“Where is driver?”
“Outside my house, I assume.”
“You didn’t use?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t request.”
His jaw tightened.
Then:
“Right.”
He called driver and apologized.
Good.
Date seven, he tried to pay three months ahead for my favorite yoga studio because owner mentioned roof repairs.
I found out.
Made him reverse donation.
“That was charity.”
“That was weird.”
“They need roof.”
“Donate anonymously if they run fundraiser.”
He did.
Date eleven, I got sick.
Flu.
He wanted doctor at my home.
I wanted soup.
He brought soup.
Bad soup.
But listened.
At six months, we kissed.
Finally.
Not in NICU.
Not prison gate.
Not Gabriel’s grave.
Outside my townhouse after a terrible movie.
He asked:
“Can I?”
I said:
“If you ask again, I may change mind.”
He kissed me.
Slow.
Careful.
I cried afterward.
He panicked.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mara.”
“It’s weird.”
“What?”
“You.”
“Excellent.”
I laughed through tears.
Then:
“You were once a headline.”
“And now?”
“You forgot napkins.”
He looked at takeout bag.
“Human.”
“Unfortunately.”
Our relationship became known eventually.
News called me “NICU nurse who tamed crime boss.”
I was furious.
Sebastian more.
His statement:
Mara Bennett is not responsible for my rehabilitation or legal choices. She is a healthcare professional with her own career and should not be reduced to my biography.
Good.
I framed that one? Almost.
At Pine Valley, I became Director of NICU Nursing Practice after promotion.
Not because Sebastian.
Independent committee.
I forced hospital to document conflict protections.
They did.
My salary increased.
Sebastian celebrated with dinner.
No diamond bracelet.
Smart.
Ava finished paralegal certificate.
Jonah started preschool.
He called Sebastian Seb.
No Uncle unless he chose.
Ava stayed clear:
“You are not his father.”
Sebastian answered:
“I know.”
“And don’t buy college.”
“Can his trust—”
“No.”
He stopped.
“Fine.”
He bought books.
Reasonable.
At three years post-release, Gabriel case civil settlements funded Family Presence Program at Pine Valley.
Not only cuddler volunteers.
Housing support.
Transportation.
Paid leave grants.
So no premature baby was alone because parent had to work two jobs.
Sebastian insisted Helen Miller’s name on whistleblower protections.
Ava cried.
Good.
Then one evening, Sebastian invited me to his townhouse.
Dinner.
He cooked.
Actually improved.
Afterward he took out small velvet box.
I saw.
“No.”
He froze.
“What?”
“Put it away.”
His face fell dramatically.
“You don’t know what’s inside.”
“Ring?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“We haven’t talked marriage.”
“We’ve been together three years.”
“That is not conversation.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he laughed at himself.
“Right.”
I sat.
“Do you want marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“Good first reason.”
Another.
“I want shared home.”
“Possible without marriage.”
“Yes.”
“Children?”
That stopped him.
We had not discussed deeply.
“I’m forty-nine.”
“I’m forty.”
“I don’t expect.”
“That wasn’t question.”
He breathed.
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
“Do you want me to stop working?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to live under security rules?”
“No.”
“Would prenup exist?”
“Yes.”
“Separate property?”
“Yes.”
“Would I be expected at Moretti business?”
“No.”
“Would your remaining family call me Mrs. Moretti and expect obedience?”
He smiled.
“Not twice.”
I laughed.
Then serious.
“Marriage with you carries power imbalance.”
“I know.”
“Money.”
“Yes.”
“Security.”
“Yes.”
“Public attention.”
“Yes.”
“Your past.”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand love does not erase those?”
“Yes.”
He placed ring box on table unopened.
“What do you need?”
There.
Question.
“Time.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
He grimaced.
“Terrible.”
“Truth.”
He nodded.
“What else?”
“To know you want marriage because of us, not because you lost family and want rebuild it.”
His face changed.
Important.
“I need to think.”
Good.
He did.
For three months, no proposal.
We attended couples counseling voluntarily.
Not crisis.
Preparation.
He hated first session.
Therapist asked:
“What does marriage mean?”
Sebastian said:
“Commitment.”
I said:
“Choice that stays revocable.”
He looked.
“That sounds unromantic.”
“People must be free to leave.”
His face tightened.
His family history.
Control.
Therapist asked:
“What happens if Mara leaves?”
Sebastian was silent.
Then:
“I survive it.”
Another.
“I do not punish.”
Another.
“I do not investigate unless there is safety reason.”
I raised eyebrow.
He corrected:
“Through lawful means and with evidence.”
Better.
“What if Sebastian relapses into controlling behavior?” therapist asked.
I answered:
“I say it.”
“If he doesn’t stop?”
“I leave.”
Sebastian closed eyes.
Then nodded.
“Correct.”
Hard.
Healthy.
We discussed children.
I had never been pregnant.
I did not know if I wanted to.
Sebastian said:
“I don’t want a child to prove Gabriel’s death didn’t end something.”
That sentence made me love him more.
We decided no plan for biological children immediately.
No replacement.
No deadline.
Family already existed around us in different forms.
Then Ava called one night.
Jonah had pneumonia.
Hospitalized.
Not critical, but scary.
Sebastian and I went only after Ava asked.
Jonah saw him.
“Seb.”
Sebastian sat beside bed.
“Hey.”
“Stay?”
His face changed.
“Yes.”
He stayed eight hours.
Not father.
Someone who stays.
The phrase from first night returned.
Every child deserves someone who stays until storm passes.
After Jonah recovered, Sebastian looked at me in parking lot.
“I know why I want marriage.”
I waited.
“Because I like ordinary life with you.”
My chest tightened.
“Not rebuilding?”
“No.”
“Not Gabriel?”
“No.”
“Not because I’m nurse?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you steal blankets.”
I laughed.
“You hate olives.”
Another.
“You leave hospital shoes in hallway even though you lecture me about contamination.”
“Different shoes.”
“Still.”
He smiled.
“And when nothing is wrong, I want you there.”
That was it.
No crisis.
No ghost.
Me.
I said:
“You may ask again.”
He did not.
Not that night.
Good.
Two months later, while we were assembling a terrible flat-pack bookshelf in my living room, he stopped.
No suit.
No restaurant.
No dead child’s anniversary.
“Mara Bennett.”
I looked.
“If this is about bookshelf—”
He pulled out ring.
Simple emerald-cut diamond with dark blue sapphire side stones.
“Will you marry me?”
I stared.
“Why sapphire?”
“You wear blue every shift.”
He had noticed.
I smiled.
“Yes.”
His face changed.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed me.
Then bookshelf collapsed.
We laughed for ten minutes.
May you like
It was the least Moretti proposal possible.
Perfect.
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