Chapter 17 - The Truth in the Fitting Room
“You’re quitting?”
“Stepping down.”
“That is quitting with better stationery.”
Adrien smiled.
“I’ll remain chairman.”
“Why?”
He looked around the shop.
“I don’t know anymore.”
“That is not a useful answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
We sat near the fitting room.
It was after hours.
Outside, September rain moved across the windows.
Adrien rubbed his hands together.
“I became CEO after my father died.”
“You were thirty-three.”
“Yes.”
“You never wanted it?”
“I never asked.”
Different.
Important.
“What did you want?”
He laughed quietly.
“I don’t remember anyone asking.”
The answer hurt.
“What would you do?”
“If you stepped down?”
“Yes.”
I considered him.
“You like architecture.”
His eyebrows rose.
“How do you know?”
“You correct building proportions everywhere we go.”
“I do not.”
“You called a hotel façade cowardly.”
“It was.”
“You redesigned my temporary studio layout on a napkin.”
“It needed circulation.”
“You like architecture.”
He stared at me.
“Apparently.”
“You like mentoring Luca.”
“Yes.”
“You like community development when you aren’t secretly purchasing buildings.”
He winced.
“I deserved that.”
“Always.”
He leaned back.
“My company has a foundation.”
“I know.”
“It is mostly checks.”
“Useful checks.”
“But not work.”
I waited.
“I’m considering running it.”
“That sounds like work.”
“Neighborhood redevelopment. Apprenticeships. Small-business financing.”
“Sounds suspiciously like someone has been influenced by a seamstress.”
His eyes met mine.
“Maybe.”
I smiled.
“Then do it.”
“That easy?”
“No. Nothing is easy.”
I took his hand.
“But you don’t need permission to want a different life.”
Adrien looked at our joined hands.
“My father spent his life building that company.”
“And?”
“If I leave—”
“You aren’t leaving.”
“It feels like it.”
“Maybe because you still think loving someone’s legacy requires repeating it.”
He went quiet.
I had become unbearably good at this.
“I hate when you make sense.”
“Most people do.”
Adrien smiled.
Then reached into his pocket.
I saw the small box.
My entire nervous system stopped functioning.
He saw my face.
And immediately said:
“No.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“This is not—”
He started laughing.
I had never seen Adrien Moretti laugh while panicking.
It was extraordinary.
“This is not what you think.”
“Then remove the tiny velvet box before I die.”
He opened it.
Inside was a thimble.
Silver.
Old.
Beautifully engraved.
I stared.
“My grandmother’s,” he said.
I exhaled so hard I nearly fell over.
“You are a terrible person.”
His laughter got worse.
“I didn’t realize how it looked.”
“You carry ring-sized boxes around casually?”
“It’s a thimble.”
“I can see that.”
“Teresa found it.”
He handed it to me.
Inside were engraved initials.
E.M.
“Eleanor Moretti,” Adrien said. “My grandmother.”
I ran my thumb over the metal.
“She sewed?”
“Constantly.”
“Why give this to me?”
“Because Teresa said she would have liked you.”
My eyes burned.
I looked away.
Adrien’s laughter faded.
“Claire?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I almost thought you were proposing and then you gave me a thimble.”
“That sounds worse when phrased that way.”
I laughed through tears.
He touched my face.
“I’m not proposing.”
“Excellent.”
“Eventually.”
My heart stopped again.
He watched me.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Too soon?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay.”
He meant it.
No disappointment weaponized.
No pressure.
Just okay.
I closed my fingers around the thimble.
“Eventually isn’t terrible.”
His eyes warmed.
“No?”
“No.”
He kissed me.
Later, he told me the board accepted his transition plan.
Six months.
He would become chairman and move full-time into the foundation.
For the first time in decades, Adrien had chosen his own work.
I thought that would be the difficult part.
It wasn’t.
The difficult part came the next day.
A journalist published a long investigation into the Moretti family’s past.
Old allegations.
Old businesses.
Old connections.
Nothing directly accusing Adrien of a crime.
Enough implication to revive every rumor Chicago had whispered for years.
The headline described him as a “modern heir to an old criminal empire.”
My photograph appeared in the article.
So did Hart & Hem.
By noon, two investors called Olivia.
By three, a national retailer paused negotiations.
By five, protesters stood outside one of Adrien’s offices.
At six, he came to my shop.
“I should stay away from you.”
I stared.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“This could hurt your company.”
“It already has.”
His face tightened.
“That is exactly why—”
“You do not get to decide for me.”
He stopped.
Our oldest argument.
In a new suit.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“By leaving before I choose?”
Silence.
I walked closer.
“You learned nothing.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t.”
My eyes burned.
“Neither is deciding I’m too fragile to survive being associated with you.”
“I don’t think you’re fragile.”
“Then trust me.”
Adrien looked away.
“I love you.”
“Then trust me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I can’t ask you to take this risk.”
“You aren’t asking.”
I touched his chest.
“I’m telling you I’m already here.”
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the fear was unmistakable.
“You could lose something because of me.”
“Yes.”
The truth hurt him.
“So could you.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You could lose me because you keep deciding what I’m allowed to risk.”
The sentence hit harder than I intended.
But I did not take it back.
Adrien stood in silence.
Then nodded.
“I need time.”
“So do I.”
He left.
No kiss.
No promise.
For the first time since we began dating, I did not know what came next.
Three days passed.
Then four.
He didn’t call.
Neither did I.
On the fifth day, Hart & Hem hosted the opening of our new production studio.
Two hundred guests.
Press.
Investors.
Employees.
Clients.
I stood backstage trying not to look at the entrance.
Emma noticed.
“He’ll come.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t need to.”
At seven-fifteen, the event began.
No Adrien.
At seven-thirty, I gave my speech.
Still no Adrien.
At seven-forty-two, Veronica whispered, “Claire.”
I looked toward the entrance.
Adrien Moretti had arrived.
Alone.
No security.
No Niko.
No black suit.
He wore olive green.
The first suit he had chosen entirely for himself.
May you like
And he walked straight toward me.
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