THE CRACKLING FIRE soothed me as I drifted in and out of sleep. I was growing stronger with each day, but I’d still spent nearly two weeks in bed, mostly drugged to the point of unconsciousness. As the hours and days passed, I recalled bits and pieces of the detoxification.

More than once I’d woken with a start, my ribs screaming out in pain as my body jolted awake. There were memories of the nurse, a burly man. I also recalled insects and vines. The memories weren’t as real as when it had happened, but they were enough to keep me away from painkillers or alcohol. I wouldn’t risk going through that again.

Oren had done his part too. Silvia informed me that the house was completely alcohol-free. Every bottle of anything had been removed. Though I had no intentions of searching, I appreciated the knowledge.

It wasn’t that I didn’t long for a glass of wine. I did. I could close my eyes and see the wine cellar at Montague: walls and walls of shelves lined with bottles. The vision made my mouth water and pulse race.

It wasn’t only the thought of alcohol that sped my heartbeat, but my husband too. I’d spoken to Ralph once, only to confirm that I was alive and well. I didn’t mention the will or my decision to divorce Alton. I simply said I was fine and would contact him again at a later date.

As I reached for the warm cup of tea near the sofa, I wiggled my toes under the soft blanket covering my legs. Beyond the windows the sky was gray with clouds that threatened snow. And yet I was warm and happy. I was sober and clean. I was growing stronger in a home I’d only heard about, dreamt about.

Oren and I studied my father’s will. Deciding to divorce Alton was similar to the consequences of taking the pills, the ones Jane confiscated from me. And yet now with the knowledge of the codicil, it was different.

I could live and other than the corporate structure of Montague going public, the assets would be evenly divided between the heirs: Alexandria and I, the way it always should have been.

The activity on the television screen caught my attention. I’d muted the sound, but now reached for the remote control and allowed the reporter’s voice to replace the soothing snap and crackle of the fire.

“…pleaded not guilty to felony murder in the death of Melissa Summers. As you may recall, her body was found on Edward Spencer’s family estate on Saturday evening. The coroner has not released any details of her death at this time other than the time of death is believed to have been only hours before her body was discovered.”

I tucked the blanket around me as I listened to a videotape of Melissa’s parents. My heart broke as they talked about their daughter, shocked that she’d been alive for all these months. Her mother cried as she begged for justice, afraid to speculate on how her daughter had been living and under what conditions.

My breath caught in my throat, a lump forming as they played another video of Alexandria and Chelsea entering the police station. I didn’t know one of the men with them, other than that Alexandria had told me it was her new attorney. The screen had their names, even Isaac’s.

I’d never felt overly attached to most of the staff at Montague. There were only special ones who’d stayed with us through the years: Jane and Brantley. The tea bubbled in my stomach at the thought of Brantley purchasing drugs for Alton’s plan.

It was the memories of Jane that brought me relief. That was the same feeling I had seeing Isaac following Alexandria. Relief and gratitude. I’d been so close to pushing her into a life with Bryce, with a man who could murder someone in cold blood and show no remorse.

His picture came on the screen. He was leaving the jail, flanked by Ralph Porter and Suzanna. I scanned the crowd for Alton. Surely he’d be there, but he wasn’t.

“Amore mio.”

I turned away from the television to the loving gaze, the one that saw what no one else had seen, had tried to see.

“You’re sad?”

I nodded, unaware that my cheeks were damp.

“Talk to me.”

I looked down into the mug. The warm golden liquid moved as my hands trembled.

Oren reached for the cup and placed it on the table as he sat beside my legs, his warmth against me. “I’m listening.”

I lifted one of his hands to my cheek and tilted my face into his palm. Closing my eyes, I felt the dampness as more tears fell. “I don’t want to be sad.”

“I don’t want you to be sad.” He looked at the television. The reporter was speaking about the penalty for murder in the state of Georgia. Felony murder carried the possibility of death, or to life in prison with the possibility of parole in 25 to 30 years. “I can’t believe a young woman is dead. I can’t believe I’m alive. I can’t believe any of this.”

Oren’s cheeks rose as small lines formed in the corners of his eyes. “Death is sad.”

I nodded.

“Being alive shouldn’t be. My dear, we have a whole life to live.”

“I think I’m ready.”

His smile grew. “Then we will live.”

My lids fell, my lashes damp as they closed. “First, I need to talk to him. I need to talk to an attorney.”

“Not in that order.”

“What?” I asked as Oren came back into view.

“An attorney first.”

“I know you’re right, but I owe him…”

“No, you don’t owe that bastard a thing. You don’t think he knows. He knows where you are. He even knows who you’re with. Adelaide, this is a game of chess, or if you like, make it a game of Battleship. I don’t care.” He grinned.

A memory of the two of us playing Battleship came back to my now-clear mind. We’d met at a small bed and breakfast in the middle of the Ozarks. It was hidden away in the dead of winter. How I made it up the icy roads I’ll never know. When we woke, we had another foot of snow. The roads were closed. Other than the caretakers, we were alone in a winter wonderland.

The cabin where we stayed had electricity and a fireplace. The shelves were filled with books and games that had been used by hundreds of other guests. Somehow one of us pulled out the box.

I was sad to say I’d never played the game. My daughter would probably have loved it, but I’d never played it or any games with her. Instead of demeaning me for my confession, Oren admitted that he too had never played. Never as a child or an adult.

In the middle of a cabin, isolated in what looked like a snow globe from the window, we sat on a shag rug in front of a fire and played Battleship. We didn’t play one game. Over the course of our three-day reprieve, we played it over and over. Each game was more strategic. Each game became a new challenge, because we had knowledge and experience. We learned one another’s strategies and weaknesses.

I took a deep breath. “He knows me.”

Oren nodded. “And you know him.”

“I do.”

“I agree it’s time. I didn’t want to rush you, but you need to make a move. What will he expect?”

“Submission. Acceptance. For me to acquiesce to whatever he demands.”

“Can you imagine his board, the way he has his ships aligned?”

Another tear fell. “Do you think I can?”

“I know you can.”

My chin fell forward as I tried to stop the ache in my chest. The pain was intense. Could it be my heart? No. It wasn’t physical. It was fear, terror as I’d never felt. And in my life I’d been afraid.

“You stopped talking,” Oren said as he lifted my chin.

“I’m not who you think.”

“I beg to differ. I’m very good at reading people. It’s served me well.”

I shook my head. “No.” And then I reconsidered. “Perhaps. I believe that you excel at many things, Oren Demetri, but you have one serious flaw.”

His neck straightened. “Do tell. I’ve not been told.”

A grin threatened my sad facade. “Or perhaps you haven’t listened.”

“Adelaide, you’re wounding me.”

“You see what you want to see, not what is there. I’m not a strong woman. I’m a woman who submits, acquiesces, and accepts. I always have been. It’s how I was raised and how I survived. My father thought no more of me. If he had, he wouldn’t have sentenced me to a life with a man I didn’t love. Alton has never thought more of me.” I shrugged. “And I’ve never given him reason to.”

Oren reached for the remote and turned off the television. When he turned back, the glow of the fire as his backdrop, I stared deeply into his eyes. The blue glistened with the reflection of the fire as the gray beyond the windows grew darker.

“In all the years, did I ever tell you about my mother?”

I sat taller, pulling my legs closer, confirming our physical connection. I shook my head. “No. I don’t even know her name.”

“Paola. It means small.”

I held my breath as he spoke. His timbre slowed as his mind went back through the years.

“And she was—small. A petite woman, like you. My father was big, a giant in my eyes when I was a child. He worked hard, physical labor. He was a longshoreman, Adelaide, manual labor on the docks of New York. I’ve never spoken about my parents, not because I’m ashamed, but because I don’t deserve you. You weren’t raised for the likes of me.”

I leaned forward, my ribs aching as I kissed his lips. I’d endure the pain to take away his. “Please go on.”

“My father worked hard and made it to supervisor. That was an accomplishment for a first-generation American.” His smile came back to life. “But it was my mother who was really the strong one. She was the one who took his paycheck and created a life and a home. He made what he considered good money, but it came at a cost. At the end of the day, she was the one who kept it together. I didn’t realize how vital she was until she was gone.”

“What happened to her?”

“There were protests. They didn’t call them that. The union was in charge. There were rumors of a strike. One night…” He took a deep breath. “…my father went to the shipyard. There had been threats. It was his job. Not that he made enough money for something like that. My mother heard a rumor. She’d overheard something at the market. I didn’t learn the details until I was older. She went to warn him, a little feisty five-foot-tall woman. Because her husband was in danger and she wouldn’t sit back and let fate have its way.”

I waited as he stared out the window, his hands still holding mine.

“My father came home, battered but alive.”

“Your mother?”

“She washed ashore two days later.”

“Oh my God.”

“My father lived only another year. He drank himself to death. I was in college, because that was what she wanted me to do. Neither one of them saw my success or my choices. I’m not sure if they would have approved. They never met Angelina or saw their grandson. They worked hard and taught me to do the same.” Oren squeezed my hand. “My mother lost her life fighting for what she believed, for the man she loved. She was strong. I see that strength in you.

“You have always been strong and little,” he added with a grin. “She had what you didn’t. She had the strength of those around her. It fed her. It fed me. Let me share that with you.”

“I-I don’t…”

“Adelaide Montague, you have survived death. That is more than Paola was able to do. I see a woman who can do anything.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Oren asked.

“Why do you see that? Why have you loved me?”

“Because you let me, because with you I wasn’t just a longshoreman’s son. With you, I’m someone more, just like you are with me. You’re more than a name and a company or an heir. I just wish you’d see yourself as I see you.”

“Call him?”

Oren shook his head. “The attorney first.”

“I’ve only ever worked with Hamilton and Porter.”

“No, amore mio, you have worked with Stephen Crawford.”

A smile came to my lips. I had. “He isn’t an attorney.”

“Not yet, but he can help you with Preston, Madden, and Owen. Daryl Owen has started representing Alexandria and Chelsea.”

“Do you have his number?”

The lines were back in the corners of his stunning blue eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do.”