Reclaimed by love

ARIANNA I stand beneath the soft glow of the antique chandelier in our modest Manhattan home, a far cry from the opulence I grew up in but exactly where I want to be. My dark hair is twisted into a loose bun, flour dusts my apron, and the scent of warm cinnamon fills the air as I take a tray of homemade rolls out of the oven. This life—simple, serene, and cloaked in anonymity—is what I’ve chosen. No corporate boardrooms, no media frenzy. Just love. Nicholas steps into the kitchen, the navy suit clinging slightly from a long day, his leather bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, his tie loosened, his Rolex—my graduation gift to him—glints under the kitchen lights. Three years married, and he still looks like the boy I met in a coffee line—only now, he’s a rising tech CEO with investors breathing down his neck. “Something smells amazing,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead. It’s brief, a little distracted, and he’s already reaching for the tray before I can respond. “Dinner will be ready in ten,” I reply with a smile. “How was your pitch?” He groans dramatically, taking a roll of cinnamon, earning an eye roll from me. “Vultures. All of them. But I think one investor might bite. They’re more interested now that our numbers are up.” He says it with his usual charm, but there’s a slight edge to his voice—tight, fatigued. His eyes don’t quite meet mine. Not the way they used to. I want to say, “You don’t need them, love. I could write a cheque today.” But instead, I wipe my hands on a towel and say, “Then we’ll toast to maybe. In the meantime, you should go take a shower. Dinner will be served before you wrap up.” He nods, distracted, his mouth full, eyes scanning his buzzing phone before tucking it back into his pocket. “Sure, babe.” My husband flashes me a smile—still dazzling, but just slightly mechanical—and disappears down the hall. The sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway leaves a quiet echo in the kitchen. I return to the stove, gently stirring the creamy risotto and glazing the carrots. A flicker of pride stirs inside me—not for the food, but for the life I’ve built. Arianna Stone. A housewife. My family would go mad with laughter if they saw me now. They’d laugh harder if they knew I’d chosen to keep it all hidden—who I really am. Arianna Rossi—heiress to the Rossi estate, granddaughter of Angelo Rossi, the Italian billionaire who built his empire from shipping to luxury hotels. I’ve kept it a secret, even after we married. I know it’s wrong, I know he deserves to know but I think it’s better this way—not because I don’t trust him—God knows I trust him more than I trust myself—but because I want one part of my life to feel earned. All my life, I’ve had things handed to me on a platter of gold. If I wanted anything, all I had to do was give my name and it would appear. A car, a designer dress, an opportunity, a door opened. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. But at some point, the glitter started to choke me. Specifically, after Alex’s death. My fingers find my locket, tears filling my eyes as I think about the man who loved me the most, the man the world stole from me. My brother was everything to me. While our parents were busy expanding the Rossi fortune, Alex was busy being there for me. He shielded me from the pressure, from the expectations, from the cold stares of investors who only saw me as a name, not a person. He was warmth. He was light. He was a breath of fresh air. He made me feel like more than a legacy. It was him and I against the world till it was just me. His death was senseless. A hit-and-run. A flash of red lights. A phone call in the middle of the night that shattered everything and shattered me. After the funeral, I remember staring at the massive portrait of Alex our family had hung in the hallway of our Florence villa. There he was, smiling, arms crossed, confidence in his eyes. He always said I could be anything I wanted, as long as I didn’t let the world decide for me. So, I didn’t. I left. I moved to New York under the guise of studying at Parsons, my parents were against it at first, they'd just lost one child, they weren't ready to let their only child go so far away but I insisted, desperate to please me, they let me go but I never returned. It was there, in the chaos of first-year orientation at NYU, that I met Nicholas. He was in line for coffee—hair a mess, laptop bag falling off his shoulder, muttering something about a philosophy elective that was going to ruin his GPA. I spilled hot chocolate on his notes, right across a page filled with equations and circuit sketches I didn’t understand. Mortified, I offered to buy him a new notebook. He smiled—this lazy, crooked, impossibly kind smile—and said, “Or you could just have coffee with me and call it even.” That coffee turned into weekly study sessions. I wasn’t even in the same program, but he found excuses to explain computer science concepts to me over lattes and muffins. He was brilliant, a little chaotic, and utterly sincere. He made me laugh without trying. He talked about his dreams of building something from scratch—something that could help people, change lives. He didn’t know who I was. Not even a clue. And I loved that. We fell in love in libraries and campus cafés, in late-night walks under city lights, in notes passed during lectures we weren’t even supposed to be attending together. I still remember the first time he called me “his person.” It was finals week. We were both sleep-deprived and cranky, and I brought him a sandwich when he forgot to eat. He looked at me like I hung the stars. I remember thinking: This is what real love feels like. The ding of the oven timer brings me back to the present. I wipe my cheeks quickly, not wanting to bring the heaviness of grief into this moment. Tonight, I want to savor what I have. Nicholas, this apartment, the illusion of a quiet life. I light the candles on the dinner table, dim the lights, and hum a soft melody Alex used to play on the piano. Sometimes I wonder what he would think of Nicholas. I think he would’ve liked him. Nicholas is ambitious, sincere, driven. But even as I think it, a small knot tightens in my chest. He’s been different lately. Not distant—no, not that—but distracted. Frustrated. His laugh still comes easily, but his gaze? It drifts more often. His phone never leaves his side. And sometimes, I catch him watching me—like he’s trying to read something I haven't said. I brush it off for now. He’s working hard to make the company succeed. I understand that. After all, his company just landed its second round of seed funding, and two major publications called him the one to watch in tech this year. Investors are circling, and big names are finally taking his calls. Success has come—faster than expected—and with it, pressure. Still, I wish he’d talk to me more. Nicholas reappears, dressed in joggers and a soft t-shirt, hair damp from the shower. He smells of mint and musk, and for a moment, everything feels perfect again. He takes his seat, eyes lighting up at the spread on the table. “You did all this?” I grin. “Of course. You deserve something nice after battling the vultures.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances at his phone again before putting it face-down beside his plate. “Thanks, babe. You always do the most.” “Only for you,” I say softly. He nods, already digging into his food. As we settle into dinner, I let myself forget everything else. For tonight, we are just Nicholas and Arianna. Husband and wife. College sweethearts. No secrets. No fortune. Just a quiet meal in a small kitchen, with cinnamon in the air and something dangerously close to happiness sitting between us. I catch the glint of my locket as I pour the wine—Alex would've wanted this for me. I just hope I haven't built it all on borrowed peace.