Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
The envelope is plain, tucked under the windshield wiper of my car, the creamy paper catching the glow of the streetlights. I notice it as I’m leaving Clive’s house—and his couch that I’m currently calling home. My plan is to drown my sorrow in a dark theater, fortified by a too-big bucket of popcorn and an unhealthy amount of Diet Coke, and I’m hurrying to catch the nine o’clock show.
At first, I think the envelope is an advertisement. But when I pull it free, I see my name written in a bold, elegant hand. No logo, no return address. Just the faint, familiar scent of Acqua di Parma Colonia clinging to it.
Matthew.
I glance around, scanning the street as if he might be lurking in the shadows. But it’s quiet—just a couple of kids skateboarding on the sidewalk and an elderly man walking his tiny dog.
With my heart thudding, I tear the envelope open and pull out a single piece of sky-blue cardstock. The words are simple, just a few lines stenciled neatly across the page:
Tonight. 9 p.m. Work. The rooftop.
That’s all it says. No explanation. No apology. Just an invitation—if it even qualifies as that. It feels more like a dare.
Fuck that.
He probably thinks this fixes everything. That I’ll walk into whatever he’s planned, and we’ll tie a neat little bow on this mess.
Anger burns through me, hot and sharp.
And yet …
I sigh, because despite the burst of anger, there’s something else burning inside me. Something light. Something more sunshine than fire.
I don’t let myself name it. Instead, I climb into the car and toss the card onto the passenger seat as I start the engine then head for the theater. I try not to think about it—that one stupid piece of paper. But at every light and stop sign, I glance over, as if it’s a living thing, demanding my attention.
The rooftop. Tonight.
I grimace and try to push that thought out of my brain.
When I’m finally parked, I shove the invitation into my purse, then open the glove compartment where I keep an extra deck of Tarot cards. Because sometimes you just need to do a quick check, regroup, and gather yourself.
I cut the deck four times, then spread the cards on the passenger seat, just where the invitation had been moments before. Then I close my eyes and draw one from the spread.
The Two of Cups.
My heart squeezes a little, and I hold the card with one hand, then trace over the intricate artwork with my fingertip. Two figures stand together, offering their cups to one another, their connection undeniable. It’s about partnership. Love built on mutual trust and understanding. At least, that’s what my Tarot book says.
I sigh. Trust and understanding. That pretty much sums it up. How can I trust him when he’s kept so much of himself hidden from me?
But is it himself?
I’m not sure if the little voice comes from the two on the card, my own mind, or if I’m channeling Bree. But I know I can’t ignore the question. He has the diadem, yes. But he got it twenty years ago when he was The Cat.
He’s not a thief anymore. If anything, he’s the epitome of a businessman, with fingers in all sorts of corporate pies.
Am I the same person I was twenty years ago? Ten? Even five?
I’m not—I know that.
But at the same time, I wasn’t ever a thief.
So everyone deserves a second chance except him?
I mentally glare at the errant thought. My mind is going in circles, but somewhere in those spinning thoughts is the flicker of something I’ve been missing for days. Not certainty—God knows I’m nowhere near that—but something softer, gentler. A little bit of hope. Maybe enough to make me brave.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting.
I exhale slowly, then, tuck the card into my purse. It’s a sign, and I’m going to hold it close.
The elevator hums as it rises, and I swear I can feel every vibration as it ascends. I’m the only one in the car—possibly the only one in the building—and the numbers above the door tick by at an infuriatingly steady pace.
Nine.
Ten.
I watch, not sure if I want to will the thing to go faster or slower.
Eleven.
Twelve.
And then the car glides to a stop, and I realize with a sudden jolt of terror that the doors are going to open onto the rooftop—and there’s no going back from here.
I half-consider jamming the button for the lobby, then hiding in the corner, but that’s only nerves. I want to be here.
More than that, I think I have to be here.
Then the doors slide open with a quiet ding. Cool air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of wood smoke.
I hesitate, the threshold feeling like the edge of a cliff.
My stomach twists. What if I’m just setting myself up to be hurt all over again? What if I step out there and it all falls apart?
The possibility terrifies me, but I also know that if I step off this car and onto the roof, then I’ve created a future where Matthew and I at least have a chance. That chance might evaporate ten minutes from now, but at least it will have existed.
I think about Bree’s words About forgiveness not meaning forgetting. I think about how Matthew risked everything to find the truth about Jenny and the others. And about how I still miss him so much it feels like a physical ache.
But what if it’s not enough?
It will be. It has to be .
But what if it’s not ?
I can’t answer that question. All I can do is remind myself that it’s Matthew. And at the very least, he’s worth the chance.
I draw in a breath, then step out of the car into the cool night air. Behind me, the elevator doors close softly, cutting off any chance of retreat.
There is a small brick wall that separates the elevator bank from the rest of the roof, so I can see nothing except the dimly lit emergency exit instructions on the brick and the golden glow that seems to be rising from behind the wall. I should be grateful the wall is there; it gives me another moment in which to gather myself.
But I’m not. I’m ready to be all-in. Ready enough that I hurry to my right, arching around the edge of the wall and then stopping short and gasping when I see the fairyland spread out in front of me.
It’s beautiful. Magical.
And nothing at all like the dingy rooftop littered with cigarette butts and decorated with slightly rusty furniture.
It’s the same place, and yet this place is utterly enchanting, completely transformed into something magical. String lights stretch across the rooftop, forming a ceiling grid that casts a warm, golden glow. At the center, flames flicker out of a tall barrel, dancing and shimmering, their glow competing with the Valley lights spread out beneath us like a glittering sea that feels both infinite and intimate.
And there, by the fire, is Matthew.
He’s standing tall, not moving, yet somehow seeming to grow larger than life from nothing more than the fact of his existence. There’s a heat in his eyes that’s not from the fire, and though I’d told myself to take this slowly, I can’t deny that his gaze and this magical fairyland are both making me melt in the sweetest of ways.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater that clings to his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way he always does when he’s thinking, planning. His hands are tucked into his pockets, but even from here, I can see the tension in his posture. The way his shoulders are just slightly hunched, like he’s bracing for a storm.
For me.
I lift my chin and take a step toward him, noticing only then that although he’s standing tall and straight, his face looks worn. As if he hasn’t slept in days.
I wonder if he sees the same in my face.
As if we’re both thinking that same thing, our eyes meet and hold. Then I look away, afraid of what I’m feeling. Afraid that I want him too much, and because I do, I’m not thinking about this right.
“You came.” His voice is soft, but it carries over the rooftop, over the crackle of the fire.
I shrug. “I’m just here for a party on a roof. Had no idea who left me that invitation.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He takes a step toward me. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you stayed away.”
“I probably should have.” I take a step toward him.
“So why didn’t you?”
I shrug, then sweep my hand to indicate the roof. “And miss all this?”
“Window dressing,” he says. “The only thing I care about is you. Not the fire or the lights. Not the roof or the elevator or the building or the whole damn Valley below us. Just you, Aria. Put me to the test. Throw the labors of Hercules at me. Anything. Just give me the chance to prove that I’m not The Cat. I’m not the man you hate. Not anymore.”
For a moment, I just look at him, because the truth is that he’s right and he’s wrong.
And maybe that’s okay.
“Aria?”
“You are The Cat,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper.
“Aria, no, I?—”
“No. Wait.” I swipe a finger under my eye to wipe away a tear. “I never hated The Cat,” I tell him. “I hated the Stair Man because he made me love him. And then he turned out not to be who I thought he was. But he’s you, Matthew. You’re The Cat. And you’re the Stair Man. And you’re Matthew.”
“Please, Aria. Let me?—”
“The Stair Man left,” I say firmly cutting him off. “The Cat betrayed my family. But Matthew Holt …” I trail off, my throat clogged with tears. “Matthew Holt never hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt me.”
His brow furrows. “No,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t.”
He takes a step closer. “I can’t change the past. But I love you, Aria. I love you, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you’ll let me.”
I glance around at the rooftop. “It’s beautiful,” I say, “but I didn’t need the grand gesture. I just needed …” I trail off with a shrug. Because there’s only one thing I need. The only thing I think I’ll ever truly need. “I just need you,” I say, my throat clogging with tears.
He hurries to me, then pulls me into his arms, and before I know it, I’m lost in a kiss, soft at first, then deeper as he pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me like he never wants to let go.
Honestly, I know the feeling.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathless, he reaches out and strokes my hair. “Aria, baby, I wish you’d told me you didn’t need grand gestures earlier.” His face is alight with humor. “I went to all this trouble.”
I laugh as I take another look around the roof. “You did a damn good job.” I brush my fingertip over his jaw, enjoying the feel of his beard stubble on my skin. “If you have a blanket, maybe we could christen the roof before heading back down.”
His mouth twitches. “I think we can add that to the agenda. But that wasn’t the grand gesture I was talking about.”
I shake my head, confused. Then even more confused when he slips into the shadows and then returns with something that looks like a hatbox.
“For you,” he says.
I take it, both curious and delighted. I set it on one of the nearby tables, then untie the bow that’s holding the box closed.
Slowly, I take off the lid, then gasp when I see what’s inside.
The diadem .
My family’s diadem.
Carefully, I lift it from the box. Its diamonds catch the firelight, scattering it in a million directions. And there, at the point, is the priceless yellow diamond.
“Oh, God, Matthew. Tell me you didn’t steal it back. I don’t think I can?—”
“ No .” The word is hard. Firm. “It had been sold five times in private sales. It took a hell of a lot of doing, but I tracked it down. I bought it, baby. Free and clear.”
I gape at him. “It must have cost a fortune.” It was already priceless when Vivien Lorainne owned it, and over time the diamond would only become more valuable. Add in the history—the Hollywood connection, the theft—and the price would have increased simply because of the story behind the stone.
He shrugs. “I had to give you back the diadem your family lost. That diamond was my rock that launched all of this.” He gestures to the building below us and the studio backlot below. “And that diadem is the start of a path that led me to you. I owe your family everything that means anything to me. Especially you. So nothing less than returning it would do.”
“I—” I shake my head. It’s the only thing I’m capable of, as words have completely abandoned me.
“After that night—after I got you away from those monsters—I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were so strong, so resilient. You fascinated me.”
“Matthew …”
“Wait. Let me finish.” He looks down, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath before he lifts his head and meets my eyes.
“I watched you grow up, Aria. At first, I’d just check in every few months to make sure you were okay. I felt a responsibility—not because I’d got you away from those prick babysitters, and not because I’d stolen the diadem. Just … I don’t know. Just to make sure you were safe. And you were. You’re gentle and vulnerable and quirky, Aria. But you’re so damn strong, too.”
He draws a breath. “But then years passed and you moved to Los Angeles, right into my backyard. I started watching more closely. I knew you didn’t have a steady job, and I thought I might help, but then I realized that was part of who you were. Part of that fire you have inside you. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you, even though I had no right to.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and raw. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I don’t bother wiping them away.
“I can’t change the past. But I love you, Aria. I love you, and I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you’ll let me.”
For a long moment, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. The diadem trembles in my hands, and I set it down on the table before I drop it. Then I take a step toward him.
And another.
Then I’m in his arms, his warmth wrapping around me like a shield against the cold night air as tears of relief and joy spill down my cheeks. His hold is tight, almost desperate, like he’s afraid I might slip away. And for the first time in days, I feel whole again.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest. “God help me, I love you, too.”
He tilts my chin up with his finger, and his dark eyes search mine. Then he kisses me, slow and tender, his lips warm against mine. A kiss of hope. Of promises.
And of a future I’m finally ready to believe in.
And as the city sparkles around us, I know that somehow, someway, we’ll find our way forward.
Together.