Chapter 15 - The Sovereign Donna of the Winter Gardens
Later that evening, after the grand feast had wound down into soft acoustic music, clinking crystal, and lively laughter, Christian and I stood together on the private master terrace of our Lake Shore Drive estate.
A gentle summer breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind us, carrying the clean, crisp scent of lake water and the blooming roses from the gardens below.
Inside the softly lit salon, Mrs. Gable was sitting by the fire, holding a sleeping Maya in her arms, softly singing an ancient lullaby as our Little Bear slept soundly against her chest.
Christian held me from behind, his arms wrapped securely around my waist, his chin resting gently on my shoulder.
My left hand rested over his, the platinum and sapphire rings catching the silver glow of the Midwestern moon.
“Are you tired, Donna Elena?” Christian whispered into my ear.
I leaned back against the broad, solid warmth of his chest, smiling up at the starlit sky, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my shoulder blades.
I thought of the cold conservatory bricks, the wooden garden stake, the sixteen dollars an hour in my checking account, and the moment a three-year-old girl in pink snow boots had looked into the eyes of a monster and told him his cane made too much noise by itself.
“Not anymore, Christian,” I whispered back, turning in his arms to cup his rugged, scarred face in my hands. “Tonight, I’m finally home.”
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He smiled—the soft, peaceful smile of a sovereign whose wars were won and whose soul was finally whole—and kissed his wife beneath the Chicago stars.
THE END
