Chapter 11: What They Want from Us
The weather turned colder overnight.
Ella woke to frost clinging to the window panes and a distant kind of silence—the kind that made the world outside feel too far to touch.
Xavier wasn't home.
She hadn't expected him to be. He'd left sometime before sunrise, as usual, but this time he hadn't left a note.
Just a fresh thermos of coffee.
Black. No sugar. The way she liked it.
A silent gesture.
But one that wrapped itself around her chest too tightly.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen for a long time, watching the steam rise. And for the first time since marrying him, she wondered—
What would it feel like if it weren't a contract?
---
Later that morning, Ava showed up unannounced.
Tailored navy coat. Phone in hand. Already irritated.
"Put something on. We're going to brunch."
Ella blinked. "With who?"
"Your in-laws."
"My what?"
Ava's smile was tight. "The King family wants to meet you properly. Well—'reintroduce' might be the more accurate word. It's a power play. Smile through it."
"I wasn't told."
"You are now. Xavier will meet us there."
Ella folded her arms. "And why exactly is this happening now?"
Ava lowered her phone, finally meeting her gaze. "Because the board is asking questions. And when people with too much money and too little conscience ask questions—someone always bleeds."
---
The Kings were not a warm family.
They were a kingdom—cold, elegant, and sharp around the edges. And Ella? She was the outsider walking into a castle where every chandelier and champagne flute whispered you don't belong here.
The brunch was held in a private suite at the Carlisle. Gold trim. White flowers. Silent staff. Five empty plates arranged like they were preparing for a political summit.
Ella arrived in a cream wrap dress and nerves she couldn't quite quiet.
Xavier was already there, seated beside his mother—Margot King, the woman with glacier-blue eyes and a reputation for smiling only when a deal was won.
Ella's chair sat directly across from her.
The arrangement wasn't accidental.
"Ella," Margot said as she stood to greet her. "You're more polished than the tabloids suggested."
"Thank you," Ella said, voice steady. "You're more direct than I imagined."
There was a pause.
And then—unexpectedly—Margot laughed.
A short, crisp sound.
Xavier's gaze flicked to Ella. Amused. Impressed.
She wasn't sure which reaction made her chest tighten more.
---
They talked.
About appearances.
About expectations.
About legacy.
"I'm aware this marriage was rushed," Margot said over tea. "And… unconventional. But I'm not here to debate the past. Only the future."
Ella took a slow sip of orange juice. "What about the future concerns you?"
"You have no children," Margot said plainly.
Ella's hand froze on her glass.
Xavier's voice cut in. "That's not up for discussion."
His mother's gaze didn't waver. "It is when your name holds half of New York's real estate, Xavier."
Ella looked between them. "You want an heir."
"We expect one," Margot corrected. "Your contract has terms. But our name carries weight beyond paperwork. You understand, of course."
Ella smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.
"I understand that you believe your legacy is more important than your son's happiness."
Margot's expression didn't change.
But Xavier's hand brushed her knee beneath the table.
Not in warning.
In solidarity.
And Ella, despite the pressure and the tension and the tightness in her lungs, didn't flinch.
She lifted her glass.
"To legacy," she said.
And Margot clinked it—cold and silent.
---
They left together, Xavier's arm lightly against Ella's back as they exited the hotel.
He didn't speak until they were in the car.
"I didn't know they were going to bring that up," he said.
"I figured," Ella said softly. "Your hands were clenched under the table."
He looked at her. "They have no right."
"But they have power," she said.
Xavier's voice was flat. "Not over you."
She turned to him then, unsure of what she saw in his eyes.
Concern?
Guilt?
Something closer?
"Why haven't you asked me that?" she said.
"What?"
"If I wanted children."
Xavier went still.
The city passed behind them, blurred by tinted glass and silence.
"Because it's not my decision to make alone," he said finally.
Ella nodded once. "And if I did?"
He met her gaze. "Then we'd talk about it."
She searched his face.
No cracks. No lies.
But also no promises.
And somehow, that made her heart ache more than anything.
---
Back at the penthouse, Ella changed into sweatpants and wandered into Xavier's study.
He wasn't there.
But his jacket was.
And on the edge of the desk, tucked beside his closed laptop, was a photograph.
She leaned in slowly.
It was old. Worn. A teenage Xavier, standing beside a younger boy—same jawline, same eyes. Laughing.
She recognized the expression.
Because she'd never seen it on him before.
She touched the frame, carefully.
And just then—
Xavier walked in.
Their eyes met.
"You're not supposed to be in here," he said.
"I know," she replied.
But he didn't sound angry.
He walked past her, took off his watch, and placed it in the drawer beside the photo.
"My brother," he said.
She looked up. "I didn't know you had one."
"I don't," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
Ella's breath caught.
She didn't speak.
She just waited.
Xavier sat on the edge of the desk, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
"He died five years ago. Car accident. I was supposed to pick him up. I was late."
Ella's heart broke, quietly, inside her chest.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"So was I."
He didn't say anything else.
And she didn't ask.
Because some wounds didn't need dissecting.
They just needed presence.
She stepped forward slowly.
Placed a hand on his shoulder.
And he let her.
---
That night, they didn't sleep in separate rooms.
But they didn't share a bed either.
He fell asleep on the couch in her sitting room.
She draped a blanket over him.
Watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.
And wondered, not for the first time—
If love could grow from grief.
Not as a cure.
But as a mirror.
Reflecting the parts of themselves they were too afraid to face alone.