Chapter 18 - WHAT VICTOR REALLY WANTED FROM ME
Our wedding morning began with Jasmine screaming because the florist arrived at the wrong entrance.
That felt appropriately normal.
My mother cried before I put on the dress.
Then claimed she wasn’t crying.
Marcus brought breakfast.
Rachel brought documents.
“Why do you have a folder?”
“Prenuptial agreement copies.”
“Today?”
“Romance is temporary. Proper documentation is eternal.”
Jasmine threw a pillow at her.
I laughed.
Outside, Manhattan moved beneath gray spring clouds.
La Bernardine had closed for the day.
No wealthy customers.
No business dinners.
No people expecting me to refill their glasses.
Just family.
Friends.
Workers who had become friends.
Former colleagues.
People who had helped uncover the truth.
We placed a photograph of Dad near the entrance.
Not a giant memorial.
Just him smiling in his work jacket.
Mom touched it when she arrived.
“You think he’d like Victor?”
I considered.
“He’d make Victor fix something first.”
Mom smiled.
“Definitely.”
Victor waited near the windows.
Black tuxedo.
Nervous.
Luca stood beside him as best man.
When the doors opened, Victor looked toward me.
Everything else disappeared for one second.
I walked.
Past the service station.
Past the chandelier.
Past Table 23.
Then I reached the section of marble where I had fallen.
My body remembered.
I stopped.
Guests probably thought emotion overwhelmed me.
It did.
But not because I was afraid.
I looked down.
Same floor.
Different woman.
Then I kept walking.
Victor’s eyes were wet by the time I reached him.
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Your mother taught you bad habits.”
“She did.”
The ceremony was simple.
No elaborate vows.
I had written seven pages and reduced them to one.
Victor had apparently written two sentences.
Typical.
When it was his turn, he looked at me.
“I spent most of my life believing love meant protecting people from every bad thing.”
He paused.
“You taught me that sometimes love means respecting someone enough to let them fight their own battles.”
My throat tightened.
“I promise I will stand beside you.”
Another pause.
“Not in front of you.”
That sentence broke me.
When my turn came, I unfolded my paper.
Then folded it again.
“I had a speech.”
Victor smiled.
“Where?”
“In my head.”
Guests laughed.
“You stole that.”
“Yes.”
I took his hands.
“The first time I saw you, I was sitting on the floor.”
Victor’s smile faded softly.
“And you stood up.”
I looked around the dining room.
“For a long time, I thought that was why I loved you.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“But it isn’t.”
I took a breath.
“I love you because afterward, when I stood up too, you never asked me to sit back down.”
Victor closed his eyes briefly.
“Even when I made your life difficult.”
“Especially then.”
We married.
People applauded.
Mom cried openly.
Jasmine cried louder.
Marcus pretended something was in his eye.
Rachel checked her watch because apparently emotions had schedules.
Dinner followed.
And yes—
We sat at Table 23.
Someone asked whether that felt strange.
It did.
That was why we did it.
You cannot always erase bad memories.
Sometimes you place new ones beside them until the old one stops owning all the space.
Later that evening, after guests left, Victor and I remained alone in the dining room.
Staff cleared tables.
Music played quietly.
I noticed a waitress carrying a heavy tray.
Instinctively, I stood to help.
Victor laughed.
“What?”
“You’re wearing a wedding dress.”
“So?”
“You’re going to carry dishes?”
“I know how.”
The waitress looked horrified.
“Mrs. DeLuca—”
I froze.
“Oh God.”
Victor smiled.
“What?”
“Mrs. DeLuca sounds like someone’s grandmother.”
“You don’t have to change your name.”
“I know.”
“Anna Martinez-DeLuca?”
“Too long.”
“Anna Martinez?”
“Probably.”
He nodded.
No ego.
I loved that too.
We left after midnight.
No paparazzi outside.
We had managed to keep it private.
For approximately fourteen hours.
The next afternoon, Jasmine accidentally uploaded a photograph.
“I THOUGHT IT WAS CLOSE FRIENDS.”
It went everywhere.
Of course.
But something had changed.
The internet no longer controlled how I saw myself.
I could laugh.
Our honeymoon lasted ten days.
Victor tried turning off his phone.
He lasted four hours.
I lasted six.
Work had become part of us.
Not all of us.
When we returned, I resumed the worker standards council.
Victor continued restructuring his companies.
Then one afternoon, he asked me to visit the East River property.
I hadn’t been there since Dad died.
The old development had remained tied up in litigation.
Now ownership was settled.
DeLuca Infrastructure retained the land.
Caldwell claims were voided.
Victor had a proposal.
We stood near the river wearing hard hats.
The skyline reflected across gray water.
“What are you building?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s new.”
He handed me plans.
A public training campus.
Union apprenticeship facilities.
Safety research center.
Affordable housing for trade students.
Public waterfront.
At the top:
GABRIEL MARTINEZ CENTER FOR SKILLED TRADES AND WORKER SAFETY.
I stared.
“No.”
Victor’s expression fell.
“No?”
“You don’t get to name things after my father without asking Mom.”
He exhaled.
“I thought you hated it.”
“I do.”
“You just said—”
“I hate when you make me cry at construction sites.”
He smiled.
Mom approved.
The project moved forward.
Funding came partly from DeLuca Holdings.
Partly from Caldwell victim settlements.
Partly from unions and public grants.
Victor wanted a giant plaque explaining Dad’s role.
Mom insisted Dad would haunt us.
We settled on something small.
At the groundbreaking ceremony, I gave a speech.
I looked at hundreds of apprentices.
Electricians.
Carpenters.
Plumbers.
Engineers.
Hotel workers from our council.
Managers.
Executives.
My mother sat front row.
Victor beside her.
“I used to think this story started when I spilled water on a billionaire’s son.”
People laughed softly.
“It didn’t.”
I looked toward Dad’s photograph.
“It started years earlier when one electrician noticed something wrong and decided not to ignore it.”
Wind moved across the river.
“He didn’t have money.”
Pause.
“He didn’t have political influence.”
Pause.
“He didn’t have security guards or lawyers waiting for his call.”
I smiled toward Rachel.
“He definitely didn’t have Rachel.”
Rachel nodded solemnly.
More laughter.
“But he had a voice.”
I looked at the apprentices.
“And he used it.”
I finished with Dad’s words.
“If you ever find yourself standing alone because everyone else is too scared to speak, look around carefully.”
My voice tightened.
“Someone else is probably waiting for permission to stand too.”
Applause rose.
I stepped away from the microphone.
Victor met me beside the stage.
“You did good.”
“So did Dad.”
“Yes.”
Then I finally asked him a question I had carried since the restaurant.
“What did you want from me?”
Victor frowned.
“When?”
“After Table 23.”
“Nothing.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“You paid my bill. Found a lawyer. Gave me a job.”
“Yes.”
“What did you expect?”
He thought for a long moment.
“At first?”
“Yes.”
“To know you were okay.”
“And later?”
He looked toward the river.
“To become someone you could trust.”
That answer was better than any romantic speech.
“And now?”
Victor smiled.
“Now I want you to stop stealing blankets.”
I hit his arm.
He laughed.
That evening, we returned home.
No crisis.
No headlines.
No threats.
We cooked dinner badly.
Victor burned garlic.
I answered three emails even though I had promised not to work.
We argued about dishes.
Then sat outside in the backyard.
Normal.
I once believed happiness would feel enormous.
Like winning something.
Like justice.
Like money.
Like a courtroom verdict.
Instead, happiness felt quiet.
A light on in the kitchen.
My mother calling too often.
Jasmine sending ridiculous videos.
Marcus complaining about suppliers.
Rachel charging everybody.
Victor beside me.
And knowing tomorrow did not scare me.
For someone who had spent years living paycheck to paycheck and months expecting another threat—
peace felt like the greatest luxury I had ever known.
But our story had one more circle to close.
Exactly one year after the night at La Bernardine, Marcus called.
“Anna.”
“What?”
“Turn on the news.”
My stomach tightened automatically.
“What happened?”
“Nothing bad.”
I didn’t believe him.
I turned on the television.
A reporter stood outside La Bernardine Palace.
Behind her, restaurant staff gathered near the entrance.
Former employees.
Managers.
Workers from around New York.
A new brass plaque had been installed near Table 23.
I read the inscription.
And started crying.
Victor walked into the room.
“What?”
I pointed.
The plaque said:
FOR EVERY PERSON WHO HAS EVER BEEN TOLD TO STAY QUIET.
YOU DESERVE TO BE HEARD.
Below it, one smaller line.
TABLE 23.
Victor looked at me.
“You knew?”
“No.”
I called Marcus.
“You did this?”
“Not me.”
“Who?”
“All of us.”
Former restaurant employees had funded it.
The new owners approved.
No names.
Not mine.
Not Victor’s.
Not Ethan’s.
That was what made it perfect.
The story no longer belonged to us.
Table 23 had become a symbol for anybody who decided to stand.
And midnight was approaching.
May you like
Exactly one year after millions of strangers first learned my name.
This time, I knew exactly where I wanted to be when the clock struck twelve.
