Chapter 8 - Summer in Lincoln Park
Six months later.
The summer sun washed over the vibrant green lawns and blooming flowerbeds of Lincoln Park, casting a warm, golden glow across the front porch of a charming, three-story brick townhouse.
Inside, the house smelled of fresh vanilla, blooming lavender, and the comforting, homestyle scent of baking bread.
Nora stood in the spacious, sunlit kitchen, wearing a breezy summer dress that hugged her full hips and celebrated her curves with effortless grace. Her dark hair fell in soft, loose waves over her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with a vibrant, inner peace she hadn't known was possible.
From the living room came the joyful, infectious sound of a toddler’s laughter.
“Ma-ma! Ma-ma!”
Nora turned with a bright smile just as fourteen-month-old Leo toddled rapidly across the polished hardwood floor, balancing precariously on chubby legs, chasing a bright red rubber ball. He stumbled slightly, letting out a gleeful squeal before tumbling softly onto the plush living room rug.
Nora rushed over, scooping him up into her arms and burying her face in his neck, making him shriek with laughter.
“Look at you, running all over the place!” Nora laughed, kissing his chubby cheek. “You’re getting too big for Mama to carry, mister.”
Mrs. Higgins, who had happily agreed to stay on as their household manager, walked in from the hallway carrying a stack of mail. She smiled warmly at the sight of mother and son.
“You have a delivery, dear,” Mrs. Higgins said, setting a heavy, cream-colored envelope on the coffee table. There was no return address, just a neat, elegant script spelling out Nora’s name.
Nora’s heart gave a familiar, joyful flutter.
She set Leo down with his toys, walked over to the table, and picked up the envelope. She already knew who it was from.
For the past six months, even while traveling across Europe and New York managing his sprawling empire, Gabriel Moretti had never failed to send a message. Sometimes it was a single red rose. Sometimes it was a postcard from a foreign city. And always, it included a quiet, reassuring note in his sharp handwriting: Everything is secure. Thinking of you.
She opened the envelope. Inside was a single airline ticket from New York to Chicago, scheduled for that very evening, paired with a short, handwritten note:
The business in New York is concluded. The empire is settled. I am coming home to my proper place.
May you like
— G.
Nora stared at the note, her breath catching in her throat. A wave of thrilling anticipation washed over her. Home. He was coming back. Not just to check on her, not just to ensure she was safe—he was coming back to stay.
