POV Norah
We bought groceries together like a domestic dream I didn’t trust—his cart full of flowers and sparkling water, mine with ground beef, onions, cilantro, plantains, rice.
Xander carried the bags up the narrow stairwell without complaint, suit jacket folded over his arm, tie tucked into his pocket. On our landing he paused, breath even, eyes alert like he was about to argue a case.
“No speeches,” I whispered, fingers tight on the keys. “No CEO voice.”
“Just me,” he promised.
I opened the door.
The smell of sofrito and bleach hit us at once—my mother’s signature: clean house, warm food. Mom was at the kitchen table with a crossword and her pill organizer; Dad was at the stove, stirring black beans like they’d personally offended him.
When they turned, the room changed temperature.
“Hi, Mama,” I said, going straight to her.
She stood slowly—still a little weak, but stronger every day—and hugged me, hand sliding to my stomach like it had learned a new home.
“You look tired,” she murmured, then eyed Xander. “Both of you.”
“Mrs. Mason,” he said gently, offering flowers. “Camille, if you’ll let me.”
She took them, unable to hide her smile. “Pretty. Thank you.”
My father didn’t smile. “Mr. Crawford.” He didn’t offer a hand.
“Mr. Mason,” Xander replied, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for having me.”
Dad turned back to the stove. “Didn’t have a choice.”
Mom shot him a look. “Edward.”
“What?” he said, banging the spoon a little too loud. “Man wants to feed my daughter promises, he can eat our food.”
“Sit,” Mom told me. “You too, Mr.— Xander.”
We ate at the small table that had held every fight and celebration of my childhood. The legs rocked when anyone leaned too hard.
The fan buzzed. The rice steamed. And no one touched the pastelitos I’d brought from the Cuban bakery on the corner because nerves taste stronger than guava.
Dad didn’t bother pretending. “Why are you here?” he asked, eyes on Xander, voice clipped.
“Because I asked him to be,” I said.
“Because I needed to be,” Xander corrected. He laced his fingers together and didn’t break my father’s stare. “I’m here to tell you I love your daughter.”
I choked on water. Mom shot me napkins. Dad didn’t blink.
“You… love her,” he repeated, flat.
“Yes.”
“Love,” Dad said again, like he was testing the word for cracks. “Not convenience. Not contract. Love?”
“Love,” Xander said, steady.
Dad set his fork down. “Then tell me why you made my daughter cry. Tell me why she left your fancy apartment. Tell me why some model marched into your office and then called my girl out her name. I heard about everything."
Silence pressed against the window glass.
Xander didn’t look at me. He faced my father like he’d promised.
“Because I failed her. I hesitated when I should have stood between her and anyone who tried to harm her. I let the past get in the door. That won’t happen again.”
Dad’s mouth twitched. “Big words.”
“No,” Xander said quietly. “Simple ones.”
Mom folded her hands. “What about this… other woman?”
“Alaina is the past,” he said. “No romance, no future. I’m settling the legal fallout. But my life—what I want—is here.” He glanced at me then, quickly, like the truth might scare me. “With Norah.”
Dad leaned back, chair creaking. “A man can say anything with a straight face.” He tilted his head, voice going colder. “My daughter isn’t just another deal, Mr. Crawford. If you’re playing with her…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The air finished for him.
For once, Xander didn’t respond with iron. He let the words land. He breathed. When he spoke, it came out raw.
“I’ve made mistakes,” he said. “I’ve let her down.” His hands opened on the table, empty, unarmed. “But I swear to you—I’ll protect her, and I’ll love this child with everything I have. I don’t know how to be perfect. I do know how to be relentless.”
Dad stared at him a long time, the kind of long that makes clocks nervous. His eyes moved to me—my face, my hands, the hope I couldn’t hide if I tried—and then back to Xander.
“What do you know about plantains?” he asked abruptly.
Xander blinked. “That they taste better when you double-fry them.”
Dad’s lip was almost curved. Almost.
He shoved the pan toward the stove. “Show me.”
Xander stood without looking at me and joined my father like it was a test he’d been studying for. He sliced on the bias, waited for the oil to sing, pressed the golden coins with the bottom of a glass, dropped them back into the pan.
He didn’t talk. He listened when Dad said, “Not yet,” and “Now.”
He burned one and didn’t flinch. He set the plate down and didn’t take the first bite.
Mom leaned toward me, whispering, “He’s trying.”
“I know,” I whispered back, throat tight.
We ate the tostones with too much salt and laughed when Mom coughed and then laughed harder because joy needs permission sometimes. Dad asked Xander about work—real questions this time, not traps—and Xander answered without boasting. He offered to fix the wobbly table leg. Dad grunted, then let him.
After coffee, they talked about Queens traffic and bad weather and the best hardware store on Junction Boulevard. Ordinary things that felt like miracles.
When it was time to go, Dad stood and wiped his palms on a dish towel he didn’t need. He stared at Xander’s outstretched hand for a beat too long, then took it. His grip was firm, reluctant approval hidden in the squeeze.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said.
“I won’t,” Xander answered, equally low.
Mom hugged me, then him—quick and awkward—and slipped protein bars into my bag like I hadn’t eaten since 2004.
“Call me when you get home,” she ordered both of us.
“Yes, ma’am,” Xander said, and she beamed like he’d just passed another test he didn’t know existed.
The car ride back to Manhattan was quiet. The city streamed by in neon and brake lights, the bridge a glittering spine across the dark water.
I didn’t talk. Neither did he. At some point, his hand found mine on the console, his thumb tracing the small bones like he was memorizing a map.
I rested my head against his shoulder and watched our reflections flash and fade in the window. The baby fluttered—maybe real, maybe hope—and my chest filled with something that scared me and steadied me all at once.
I had missed him like hunger.
I had hated him like pain.
And still, leaning into his heat, I knew the thing I’d been trying not to know:
This man, broken and complicated as he is, had claimed my heart.
Outside the penthouse, the doorman nodded; the elevator hummed; the doors opened on the glass and quiet I used to fear. In the entryway, Xander turned to face me, as if asking permission to breathe.
“Norah,” he said, voice careful.
I stepped closer, let my forehead touch his chest, listened to the steady drum I’d learned by accident and then on purpose. My fingers curled in his shirt. I let the words out before I could swallow them.
“Don’t make me regret believing you.”