Part I — A Morning Worth Remembering
Aurelia's POV
I had come to the conclusion that Vincent Montclair was a menace to society.
Not because he was a brilliant lawyer. Not because he could dismantle an opposing argument in three sentences. Not even because he had an irritating habit of looking at me as though he knew every thought passing through my head.
No.
It was because the man had somehow convinced himself that cooking breakfast with me was a competitive sport.
"You're cutting those onions incorrectly, Vale."
I slowly turned towards him.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine."
He looked at the chopping board.
"Those pieces are uneven."
"So is your personality. I don't see you doing anything about that."
He laughed, leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in his hand.
I pointed the knife towards the vegetables.
"Since you're such an expert, perhaps you'd like to demonstrate."
He set his cup aside and approached me.
"Gladly."
"Don't you dare—"
He reached around me, took the knife from my hand, and began chopping the onions with infuriating precision.
I stared at him.
"Are you seriously showing off while cutting vegetables?"
"I'm demonstrating."
"You're showing off."
"Those are not mutually exclusive activities."
I snatched a piece of onion from the board and threw it at him.
He caught it against his shirt.
We both looked down.
Then at each other.
"Did you just attack me with an onion?"
"Consider it a warning."
He placed the onion on the counter with exaggerated care.
"Noted."
Before I could respond, he dipped his finger into the bowl of pancake batter and dabbed a little onto my nose.
I went completely still.
Vincent smiled.
"Oh, that's adorable."
I blinked.
"You have approximately three seconds to run."
He laughed and took off around the kitchen island.
I chased him.
"VINCENT!"
"You should be more careful, Little Swan!"
"GET BACK HERE!"
He was still laughing when I finally caught up with him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and wiped the batter onto his cheek.
Silence.
He touched his face.
I smiled sweetly.
"Now we're even."
He stared at me for a moment before wrapping his arms around my waist.
"Oh, Vale. You have made a terrible mistake."
"Is that a threat, Mr. Montclair?"
"It's a promise."
He leaned down and kissed me.
I had intended to remind him that the pancakes were burning.
Unfortunately, I forgot.
The smell of something overcooked eventually brought me back to reality.
I pulled away.
"The pancakes!"
Vincent glanced towards the stove.
Then at me.
Then towards the stove again.
"Ah."
"Ah?" I repeated. "That's your contribution to this disaster?"
He reached for the spatula.
"I believe we can still salvage them."
"We?"
"Certainly. We are a team."
"You burned them!"
"We burned them."
I folded my arms.
He kissed my forehead.
"You're very beautiful when you're angry."
"Flattery will not save you."
"Would another kiss help?"
"No."
He kissed my cheek.
I tried not to smile.
He kissed the other.
"Vincent!"
He laughed, finally turning back to the stove.
By the time breakfast was ready, the kitchen was a mess, two pancakes had been sacrificed to the gods of poor culinary judgment, and Vincent had somehow convinced me that the entire incident was my fault.
I was beginning to understand why people needed lawyers.
We had barely finished eating when the doorbell rang.
Vincent looked towards the entrance.
"Are you expecting someone?"
"No."
"Neither am I."
He stood, straightened his shirt, and walked towards the door without checking the peephole.
I remained on the couch, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of shorts because my own clothes were still in the bedroom.
I was perfectly comfortable.
Until I heard a man's voice.
"Montclair! You still answer your own door? I thought you'd have someone doing that for you by now."
I looked up.
Vincent froze.
The man standing in the doorway was around his age, dressed casually, with a grin that suggested he had never encountered a situation he couldn't make worse.
"Alex?"
"Surprise!"
Alex stepped inside before Vincent could respond.
Then his gaze shifted towards the living room.
Towards me.
Towards the shirt I was wearing.
Then back towards Vincent.
A slow, delighted smile spread across his face.
"Oh."
I closed my eyes.
No.
Absolutely not.
Alex looked at Vincent.
"Am I interrupting something?"
"Yes," Vincent replied far too quickly.
I opened my eyes.
"No," I said at the same time.
Vincent turned towards me.
I smiled innocently.
Alex burst out laughing.
"Oh, this is magnificent."
"Alex," Vincent warned.
"What? I'm delighted! You disappeared from every social event after graduation, and now I discover you have a woman in your house wearing your shirt."
"She has a name."
Alex turned towards me.
"Of course she does. I'm Alex. Old university friend, occasional source of bad advice, and apparently the first person to discover that Vincent Montclair has a life outside the courtroom."
I laughed despite myself.
"Aurelia."
His expression changed.
He looked at Vincent.
Then at me.
"Wait. Aurelia Vale?"
I nodded.
"The Aurelia Vale?"
I narrowed my eyes.
"How many Aurelia Vales do you know?"
Alex slapped Vincent's shoulder.
"You never told me!"
Vincent looked unimpressed.
"You didn't ask."
"I asked whether you were seeing anyone!"
"And I said I was busy."
"That is not an answer!"
"It was the answer I chose to give."
Alex stared at him for another moment before shaking his head.
"I cannot believe this."
He turned to me.
"How do you tolerate him?"
"Good question. I'm still conducting the investigation."
Alex laughed again.
Vincent, however, seemed to have recovered his composure.
He walked over to the couch and sat beside me, placing an arm around my shoulders as though he had every right to be there.
Which, technically, he did.
Alex noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"Well, then," he said, grinning. "Congratulations to both of you."
"Thank you," Vincent replied.
I glanced at him.
He didn't look embarrassed anymore.
He looked pleased.
Ridiculously pleased.
Alex chatted with us for a while, mostly recounting stories from their university days that Vincent repeatedly insisted were exaggerated.
Apparently, Vincent had once spent an entire evening arguing with a professor about the wording of an examination question.
"He was right," Alex admitted eventually. "But the professor was so annoyed that he made him explain his reasoning three different ways."
I burst out laughing.
Vincent sighed.
"I was sixteen."
"You were insufferable at sixteen," Alex replied.
"I've improved considerably."
I rested my head against Vincent's shoulder.
"Hmm Questionable."
He looked down at me.
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am. I just happen to be on the side of the truth."
Alex stood a little later, still smiling.
"I'll leave you two alone. But Montclair?"
Vincent looked at him.
"I'm expecting a wedding invitation one day."
I nearly choked on my coffee.
Vincent didn't even blink.
"Don't hold your breath."
Alex laughed as he headed for the door.
"That's what you said about relationships!"
The door closed.
Silence settled over the house.
I slowly turned towards Vincent.
"Well."
He looked at me.
"Well."
"Your friend is interesting."
"He's unbearable."
"You two seem to have a lot in common."
He narrowed his eyes.
I laughed and leaned closer to kiss his cheek.
"Relax. I like you better."
"How reassuring."
He drew me into his arms.
For a moment, we sat quietly.
Then I looked down at his shirt, which I was still wearing.
"Do you think he'll tell everyone?"
Vincent considered the question.
"Almost certainly."
I groaned.
He kissed my forehead.
"Let him."
I looked at him.
"You're not embarrassed?"
"Of you?"
He seemed genuinely confused by the question.
"Why would I be?"
I didn't have an answer.
He brushed a strand of hair away from my face.
"Aurelia, I've spent years keeping my private life private. That doesn't mean I'm ashamed of it."
His eyes softened.
"And I'm certainly not ashamed of you."
Something warm settled in my chest.
I leaned forward and kissed him.
This time, neither of us was in a hurry to pull away.
When we finally separated, he smiled against my forehead.
"Now, Little Swan, I believe we have unfinished breakfast."
I stared at him.
"The pancakes are cold."
"Then we'll make more."
I grinned.
"Together?"
He kissed my cheek.
"Always."
Part II — When Pride Becomes Fear
Vincent's POV
I had never been particularly interested in making my private life public.
There were too many people willing to turn ordinary moments into gossip, too many strangers who believed that knowing a person's name entitled them to know everything else.
But Aurelia was different.
I didn't want her to feel like a secret I had to protect.
I wanted her beside me.
At the office. At dinners. At the events I usually attended alone.
Everywhere I had once imagined arriving without anyone waiting for me.
So when Alex's unexpected visit exposed our relationship, I found myself less embarrassed than I expected.
Aurelia, however, had spent the following morning threatening to send him a legal notice for emotional damages.
I had told her that she would have to establish actual damages.
She had thrown a cushion at me.
I considered that a fair response.
Over the next few days, I stopped hiding the little things.
I reached for her hand when we walked together.
I kissed her cheek when she arrived at my cabin.
I brought her coffee without pretending I had ordered too much.
And when someone asked whether we were together, I stopped giving vague answers.
"Yes," I said.
Every time.
Proudly.
Because I was.
Aurelia Vale was not a secret.
She was the woman I loved.
And I had no intention of behaving as though loving her was something I needed to apologise for.
I had also begun collecting information.
Her favourite flowers.
Her preferred coffee.
The food she ordered when she was tired.
The little things she mentioned once and forgot she had told me.
I learned that she preferred thoughtful gifts over expensive ones, though she had absolutely no objection to luxury when it came with a good reason.
I learned that she liked sour flavours enough to make me question her judgment.
And I learned that if I brought her something she genuinely loved, she became so distracted by her happiness that she forgot to argue with me for several minutes.
It was an excellent strategy.
Until it wasn't.
The argument began over something that should have been simple.
Aurelia had been offered the opportunity to work on a major case that would require her to travel for several weeks.
She told me about it one evening.
I was pleased for her.
Truly.
But when I realised she had been considering the opportunity for days without telling me, something unpleasant stirred inside me.
"When were you planning to mention this?"
She looked up from the document in her hand.
"I just did."
"You know what I mean."
"Then ask what you actually want to know, Vincent."
I set my phone aside.
"Have you already decided to accept?"
"No."
"Are you going to?"
"I'm considering it."
"And you didn't think to discuss it with me?"
Her expression changed.
"Discuss it with you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Because we're together."
"That doesn't mean I need permission to accept a case."
"I never said you needed permission."
"You didn't have to."
She placed the document on the table.
"Vincent, I wanted to think it through before discussing it with anyone. I wanted to know whether it was right for my career. Whether the timing worked. Whether I could do it properly."
"And where do I fit into that decision?"
"You're part of my life. You're not the person who makes my decisions for me."
"I know that."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
I ran a hand over my face.
Because I was afraid.
Because the thought of her leaving for weeks had awakened a fear I had never quite learned to manage.
Because I wanted to be the person she told everything to, and the fact that she hadn't told me immediately felt more significant than it should have.
But instead of explaining any of that, I said the wrong thing.
"Sometimes, Aurelia, it feels as though you only tell me things once you've already decided you don't need anyone else's opinion."
She stared at me.
"That is unfair."
"I didn't say you couldn't make your own decisions."
"No. You simply made me feel guilty for doing exactly that."
Her voice was quieter now.
And somehow, that was worse.
"I have spent my entire life fighting to be taken seriously, Vincent. I won't spend my relationship proving that I can be trusted to make my own choices."
I should have stopped.
I should have apologised.
Instead, fear made me defensive.
"Perhaps you don't understand what it means to build a life with someone."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Aurelia's expression became unreadable.
"Therfore you don't understand that building a life with someone doesn't mean giving up the life you've already built."
I had no answer.
She picked up her bag.
"Aurelia—"
"No. I think we should stop talking for tonight."
She walked towards the door.
I wanted to follow her.
I wanted to tell her that I hadn't meant what I said, that I was frightened of losing her and didn't know how to admit it without sounding weak.
But the door closed before I found the words.
And for the first time since she had chosen me, I was left standing in a room that felt unbearably empty.
Aurelia's POV
I hated fighting with Vincent.
Not because I thought we should never disagree.
We were both stubborn, opinionated, and far too fond of having the last word. Disagreements were inevitable.
But this one hurt.
Because I understood his fear.
I knew about his brother. I knew how loss had changed him. I knew how carefully he tried to prepare for things that couldn't be controlled.
And I loved him for trusting me enough to show me that part of himself.
But I couldn't let his fear become a rule I had to live by.
I sat on my couch that evening, staring at my phone.
His name remained at the top of my recent conversations.
I wanted him to call.
I wanted to call him.
I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I wasn't going anywhere simply because I had an opportunity to grow, and that he didn't have to be afraid every time my life changed.
But I was hurt.
So I put my phone down.
And then picked it up again.
And then put it down.
A truly dignified evening.
Around midnight, someone rang my doorbell.
I frowned.
I wasn't expecting anyone.
When I opened the door, Vincent stood on the other side.
He looked exhausted.
His tie was crooked, his hair was untidy, and the smell of alcohol reached me before he spoke.
My heart sank.
"Vincent?"
He looked at me.
For a moment, he seemed to struggle to find the words.
Then he lowered himself onto both knees.
I froze.
"Vincent, what are you doing?"
"I'm sorry."
His voice was rough.
"I'm so sorry, Aurelia."
I crouched in front of him immediately.
"Get up."
"Please."
His eyes were wet.
"Please don't stop talking to me."
My chest tightened.
He looked down at his hands.
"I was wrong. You weren't asking me to approve your life. You were telling me about it, and I turned it into something about my fear."
He swallowed.
"I made you feel as though you had to choose between loving me and being yourself."
I reached for his hand.
He held it as though he was afraid I might disappear.
"I don't want to be that man," he whispered. "I don't want you to look at me and feel as though you have to defend your freedom."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
"Vincent, you're drunk."
"I know."
"Then we're not going to solve this tonight."
He shook his head.
"I needed to tell you—"
"And I heard you."
I touched his cheek.
"But I need you to be able to say these things when you're sober, too. I need us to have this conversation properly."
He looked at me.
I helped him to his feet and brought him inside, giving him water and making sure he was settled safely.
He apologised several more times.
I listened.
But I didn't pretend that the argument had disappeared simply because he was hurting.
Eventually, he fell asleep on the couch.
I sat nearby for a while, watching the man who could face an entire courtroom without hesitation struggle to say the words he needed most.
I loved him.
That wasn't the question.
The question was whether we could learn to love each other without letting fear make our decisions.
I hoped we could.
Because I wasn't ready to give up on us.
The next morning, Vincent woke with a headache and the mortifying realisation that he had spent the previous night apologising to my living-room furniture.
I handed him a glass of water.
"Good morning."
He looked at me.
Then at the couch.
Then back at me.
"How much do I remember?"
"Enough to know you owe my neighbours an apology for ringing the bell at midnight."
He closed his eyes.
"Wonderful."
I sat across from him.
"Vincent, we need to talk."
He straightened immediately.
"Yes."
He listened while I explained what had hurt me.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't defend himself.
And when I finished, he took a breath.
"I was afraid," he admitted. "But I made that fear your responsibility, and that wasn't fair."
He looked directly at me.
"You deserve to make your own decisions. I should have asked how I could support you instead of questioning why you hadn't told me sooner."
I studied his face.
"Do you understand why I was upset?"
"Yes."
"Not because you wanted to be included."
"No. Because I acted as though being included gave me a say over what you were allowed to do."
I nodded slowly.
"Exactly."
He reached for my hand, stopping just short of taking it.
"May I?"
I placed my hand in his.
"Yes."
He squeezed it gently.
"I'm sorry, Aurelia."
This time, the apology was clear.
Sober.
Earned.
I leaned forward and rested my forehead against his.
"I don't want a relationship where we never fight, Vincent. I want one where we can fight and still remember that we're on the same side."
He closed his eyes.
"So do I."
I kissed him.
Not because the argument had never happened.
Because we had finally begun to understand it.
And because sometimes, choosing someone meant being willing to repair what you had hurt.