Nora found Dante in his study, standing by the fireplace. In his hands, he held the original marriage contract.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pausing in the doorway.
“Ending the arrangement,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.
Nora’s heart stuttered. “Oh.”
Dante heard the hurt in her voice and turned immediately, crossing the room to cup her face in his hands. “Not us,” he said quickly, his eyes pleading. “This.” He held up the thick parchment. “The document that treated your life like leverage. The contract I signed before I understood that the most valuable person in my home would be the only one who entered it with nothing but courage.”
He tossed the contract into the fire. They watched in silence as the paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash.
When Dante turned back to her, the most dangerous man in Chicago looked entirely, wonderfully nervous. He dropped to one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.
“Do not panic,” he blurted out.
Nora laughed, a bright, genuine sound that filled the room. “That is a terrible thing to say during a proposal.”