Chapter 13: Still as Beautiful. Still as Stubborn.

Night had fallen, carried in on a breeze from the Hudson, thick with the scent of rain.

Inside the car, the only sound was the engine, interrupted now and then by the soft click of Reagan’s fingers on his phone screen.

I thought we were heading home. A light dinner. Our bodies sinking into the couch and the kind of silence that didn’t ask for anything. But then his phone rang.

The screen lit up with a name that made his jaw tighten. Papa.

He answered with a quick nod and a quiet, clipped “Yeah?”

I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the change in his face. No panic. No visible emotion. Just stillness. Cold, controlled stillness, like he'd stepped into some internal vault he kept locked at all times.

Thirty seconds later, he ended the call and dropped the phone into the center console. His eyes stayed on the road. One hand gripped the wheel.

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“My grandpa. He’s in the hospital. My dad says I need to go now.”

I nodded. “Okay. I’m coming with you.”

He turned quickly. “No. You stay at home.”

I scoffed. “You think I’m going to sit in that luxury mausoleum watching the Milano family drama unfold from a balcony?”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Gretta—”

“I’m coming. End of discussion.”

:::

The hospital looked like it had been designed by an architecture firm obsessed with glass. Everything was modern, sterile, and saturated with the sharp scent of disinfectant.

We took a private elevator to the fourth floor.

The moment the doors opened, the air changed. Not colder from the AC. Just heavier.

Because the Milanos were already there.

I spotted his mother first—Madeline Milano—leaning against the far wall in a beige designer suit, her face too polished to hold any real sympathy. Next to her, an older woman sat with a cane and a look that could cut steel: Reagan’s grandmother, no doubt.

And at the end of the hall, standing like a headline from Forbes, was Victor Milano—his father.

Every gaze shifted to me the second I stepped out behind Reagan. And just like that, the tension in the hallway snapped tighter.

“I knew they’d know,” I whispered.

“They did,” Reagan said without looking back. “They always know.”

Madeline’s eyes scanned me like I was a knockoff handbag in a Chanel boutique. “Gretta,” she said sweetly. But only with her mouth. Not her eyes.

I gave a faint smile. “Mrs. Milano.”

Her eyes dropped to our hands. Yes, Reagan was holding mine. Firmly. Without hesitation.

I looked down at our hands, then up at him. But I didn’t let go.

“Do they all know?” I asked under my breath.

“Even the hospital staff knows,” he said dryly. “Don’t be too flattered.”

His words almost made me laugh. Almost.

But the smile faded when his grandmother spoke. “The prodigal daughter-in-law returns. Just playing house again, is she?”

“No,” Reagan cut in, voice like ice. “She’s here because I want her here.”

I took a slow breath to steady myself.

“How is he?” reagan asked.

Victor glanced at me briefly. “Stable. Severe dehydration and some blood pressure complications.”

Thank God.

Reagan moved forward, tugging me gently into the room with him.

His grandpa, Frederic Milano, lay in bed, pale but smiling faintly when he saw us.

“Gretta,” he whispered. “Still as beautiful as the last time I saw you…”

That voice almost broke me.

I stepped closer, took his hand. “And you’re still as stubborn as the last time I saw you.”

He chuckled. Reagan stood beside me, silent, his expression softening in a way that made him look less like a man who ran empires and more like a grandson.

We sat together—just the three of us—inside that room. Like old times.

And for a little while… despite the scars, the poison, and the family that hissed like snakes behind polished walls…

It felt like home.

:::

The beeping of the heart monitor was the only soundtrack in the room as Reagan stood up from his chair.

“I’m stepping out for a bit, Gramps. Gretta needs coffee,” he said casually.

His grandfather gave a slight nod, but his eyes stayed on me. Warm. Familiar.

Once the door shut behind Reagan, the room went quiet again.

“I’m glad you came,” Frederic said finally.

I gave a small smile. “You think I could ignore a not-so-subtle summons from the most stubborn Milano of all time?”

He chuckled softly, then coughed. I immediately poured water from the pitcher into a glass and handed it to him.

“Thank you.” He took a small sip, then set it down on the table beside the bed.

Then he looked at me, really looked, his expression serious. “I know they haven’t made your life easy.”

I shrugged, trying to seem unbothered. “I’m not a victim, Mr. Milano.”

“Grandpa,” he corrected gently. “You’re still family.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

“So,” he continued, “you really thought we didn’t know, huh?”

My brow furrowed. “Know what?”

He reached into the drawer of the hospital nightstand and pulled out an envelope. Thick white paper. Official notary seal.

I took it slowly, opened it… and felt my mouth go dry.

A signed request to delay divorce proceedings. Dated three years ago. Signed by Frederic Milano. Authorized by the family’s lawyer.

I stared at him.

He gave me a small, knowing smile. “You think Reagan would actually go through with a divorce without me knowing?”

I could barely form the words. “But… we signed the papers.”

“Reagan signed them. He just never filed them.”

My world shifted.

“I… I didn’t know,” I whispered.

“Of course you didn’t. We made sure of that. He’s too damn stubborn. But also too in love with you to let you go that easily.”

My eyes blurred with tears that hadn’t fallen yet. “And you?” I asked quietly. “Why did you… help stop it?”

Frederic leaned back against the pillows. “Because I know something you haven’t quite admitted to yourself yet, Gretta. You don’t just love Reagan. You’re the only one who can save the part of him he doesn’t show anyone.”

I looked at the envelope in my hand, then back at him. “What about your wife? Reagan’s mother? They hate me.”

He shrugged. “You know how broken we are. They hate anything they can’t control.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “And you want me to walk back into that hell?”

He smiled softly. “No. I want you to burn that hell down and redecorate with hanging plants and glass doors.”

This time, I laughed for real. “You still know my style.”

“I pay attention. Even when everyone else chose to judge you.”

I rose slowly, tucking the envelope into my bag. “So… you want me to stay married to him?”

Frederic studied me for a long moment. “I want you to find your way back. And I know, whether you admit it or not… that road always leads back to my grandson.”

And just before I could answer, the door opened.

Reagan walked in with two coffees and one raised eyebrow. “Did I just miss the most important family meeting of the century?”

I quickly hid the envelope behind my back.