Chapter 7 - A Marriage With No Price
Eight months later, Vivien walked into Lorenzo's Apex office without knocking.
Some traditions deserved preserving.
Lorenzo looked up.
“You know, most people use the door politely.”
“Most people don't own forty percent of Pier Seventeen.”
“You own one hundred percent.”
“Exactly.”
Vivien dropped another blue folder onto his desk.
Lorenzo stared at it suspiciously.
“Should I call the fire department?”
“No lighter today.”
“Progress.”
Arthur Hastings had pleaded guilty to several federal financial and corruption charges months earlier. His political career was over.
Vivien had refused every offer to disappear from public view.
Instead, she established an independent shipping and redevelopment company using Pier Seventeen.
Lorenzo had offered help once.
She rejected it.
He never offered again.
She eventually asked.
That mattered.
Now Vivien opened the folder.
“One page.”
Lorenzo leaned back.
“I'm already concerned.”
“Read it.”
He did.
Then read it again.
His eyes lifted.
“This is a marriage agreement.”
“Yes.”
“You hate marriage agreements.”
“I hated yours.”
“That wasn't mine.”
“Details.”
He looked down again.
The document contained no property transfers.
No financial control.
No confidentiality requirement.
No business merger.
Only three sentences.
Vivien Hastings enters this marriage freely.
Lorenzo Moretti enters this marriage freely.
Either may leave with everything that belonged to them before it began.
Lorenzo stared at her.
“There's no wedding date.”
Vivien placed the gold Zippo on his desk.
His eyes immediately went to it.
“Vivien.”
She smiled.
“Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She pulled another piece of paper from behind her back.
A reservation confirmation.
Saturday.
A small waterfront chapel.
Thirty guests.
Lorenzo stood.
“Are you proposing to me?”
“Technically, I'm providing logistical information.”
“Vivien.”
She laughed.
“Yes.”
He came around the desk.
“Say it properly.”
“No.”
“Vivien.”
“You're difficult.”
“My mother says the same thing.”
She took his hand.
The black ink across it looked exactly as it had the night they met.
Except she wasn't frightened of that hand anymore.
“Lorenzo Moretti, eight months ago my father tried to use me to settle his debts.”
His expression grew serious.
“You were the first person in that room who told me I owed you nothing.”
Vivien stepped closer.
“So I'm asking you something that has no debt attached.”
Lorenzo waited.
“Marry me.”
His smile appeared slowly.
“Yes.”
“That was suspiciously fast.”
“I've been waiting eight months.”
“You could've asked.”
“You would have said I was controlling.”
“I probably would have.”
“I know you very well.”
She glanced toward the office door.
“You locked it the first night we met.”
“Yes.”
“Remember what I put in our agreement?”
Lorenzo looked toward the door.
Then back at her.
Without breaking eye contact, he walked over and opened it.
Vivien laughed.
“Learning.”
“Slowly.”
Saturday afternoon, Boston Harbor glittered beneath a clear winter sky.
There were no senators arranging deals.
No syndicates waiting outside.
No forty-million-dollar debt.
No photographers selling the ceremony as a political alliance.
Vivien walked down the aisle because she wanted to.
When she reached Lorenzo, he whispered, “Last chance.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“For you?”
“For either of us.”
Vivien took his hand.
“That's why I'm staying.”
They exchanged simple vows.
No ownership.
No leverage.
No price.
At the reception, Marco raised his glass.
“I'd like everyone to remember this marriage began when Vivien burned the first contract.”
Lorenzo looked at his wife.
“She also nearly burned down my desk.”
“It was marble.”
“The paperwork wasn't.”
Vivien smiled.
“You smiled while it burned.”
“I knew something you didn't.”
“What?”
Lorenzo leaned closer.
“That contract was never going to make you my wife.”
Vivien’s expression softened.
“And now?”
He touched his forehead gently to hers.
“Now there's no contract keeping you here.”
Vivien looked around the room, then back at the man her father once tried to turn into another transaction.
She squeezed Lorenzo's hand.
“No.”
She smiled.
“Just me.”
And for the first time in her life, Vivien Hastings had entered an agreement nobody else had negotiated for her.
She had chosen the man.
She had chosen the terms.
Most importantly—
May you like
she had chosen herself.
THE END.
