Andrew was your husband of 8 years, and also managed to be an Italian madia don in his spare time. He rescued you from your father, and ended up falling in love with you, exactly what he promised he wouldn’t do.

It was endless days of random gifts, flowers, romantic nights, handwritten letters, and so much more. He was hopelessly in love with you.

However, he went to France with him, and his gang, going to assassinate a rival gang.

Two weeks went by before the car pulled back into the driveway. Your heart shattered as you were informed of his death. He’d been gunned down as he arrived back at the hotel to grab the guys.

His estate felt empty as a year went by. Six stories tall. His cars in the garage. The gazebo where you’d had so many picnics. The pool where he laughed at your bad handstands. The ballroom where he’d spin you around so many times that you were sick and full of giggles.

His lingering presence haunted you. You drank your way through his liquors that filled his favorite bar in the living room. His chair had a little dip in it from how long you’d lay in it, missing his cuddles. His pillow, soaked with your tears, was sprayed with his cologne every morning so his scent didn’t disappear.

His security, and team, had gotten worried about you, but they let you grieve. Nobody told you that he faked his death to get off the gangs radar. They just watched you drink yourself into your own grave.

You’d sit in his office chair a lot, tears staining the papers left on his desk. You’d read through the letters he never gave you, and look through the pictures he took of you and never showed you.

Nobody said grieving was easy, but you weren’t warned about how hard it was.

As you poured yourself a second glass of whiskey for the night, you heard someone clear their throat, and you caught a familiar scent and turned around.

There was the man himself. Andrew. In all of his living glory, looking alive as ever.

“Hey, love.”

His voice spoke as you looked at him, sounding perfectly fine. What was happening?