Chapter 13
Snow
I’ve been replaying last night on a loop all day.
The way Wyatt leaned in. The way my heart stopped and started and stopped again.
The feel of his hand in mine as we sat on that bench, and the quiet promise in his voice when he said he’d wait.
I spent the morning pacing my cottage, the afternoon pretending to work on my business plan, and finally gave up and texted Nico that I was coming over.
Because if I spend one more hour alone with my thoughts, I’m going to lose my mind.
Nico’s Brooklyn apartment is unapologetically her: sapphire velvet sofa, mismatched pillows, bold art on every wall, and the rich smell of marinara simmering on the stove. The city glitters through her massive windows, alive and chaotic.
She greets me at the door with a fierce hug that leaves me breathless.
She’s already in her comfort clothes — a pair of soft, worn-out sweatpants and a tight black tank top, her glossy hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head.
She pulls me into the kitchen, where a pot of marinara sauce is simmering on the stove, filling the apartment with the scent of home.
Without a word, she opens a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and pours me a glass so full it’s almost overflowing. This is our ritual, a tradition we started back in college, a silent agreement that whatever is about to be discussed requires good wine and absolute honesty.
She tops off her own glass, takes a healthy sip, and then leans against the counter, her dark eyes sharp and knowing.
“Okay, spill it,” she says, her voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern.
“You’ve had this look on your face since you arrived.
Dreamy and terrified at the same time. What happened?
” She gets straight to the point, her bluntness a refreshing antidote to the world of veiled insults and passive aggression I’ve been living in.
I feel heat rising to my cheeks. “Wyatt,” I say, and even saying his name out loud makes my stomach flip.
Nico’s eyebrows shoot up. “The gallery date, not a date, was last night, right? Oh, this is gonna be good.” She leans back against the counter, wine glass in hand, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
“So you’re falling for the romance cover model while divorcing your cheating husband. Very on brand for you, honestly.”
I try to deflect, to downplay the swirling vortex of hope and fear that has taken up residence in my chest. “I’m not falling for him,” I say, the words sounding weak and unconvincing even to my own ears. “We just… had a nice time. We went to an art gallery.” I try to keep my tone light.
Nico just raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a silent, bullshit-detecting expression she has perfected over years of friendship.
“A nice time?” she repeats, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“Snow, you haven’t looked this flustered since you accidentally called our professor ‘dad’ in corporate finance class. Tell me what happened.”
I let out a long, shaky breath and surrender. There’s no point in trying to hide anything from Nico. She sees right through me, always has. I follow her to the plush velvet sofa and curl up on one end, my wine glass cradled in my hands like a lifeline.
“It was easy conversation.”
Nico just raises an eyebrow, a silent invitation to continue.
“He talks about photos, about art, with so much passion,” I say, my voice soft with a wonder I can’t contain.
“When he talks about his photography, his whole face lights up. It’s like he becomes a different person.
” I shake my head in disbelief. “He’s so different from Preston.
He’s quiet, and kind, and he… he sees things. He really sees them.”
“And does he see you?” Nico asks, her question simple but cutting straight to the heart of it.
The question makes my breath catch. “Yes,” I say, the word feeling heavy and true. “He looks at me like I’m something he wants to understand, not something he wants to control or fix. Like he’s genuinely curious about who I am.”
It’s my turn to take a healthy sip of wine before I continue. “We almost kissed,” I confess, the admission hanging in the air.
Nico sits up straighter. “Wait. Back up. Tell me everything.”
“We were on this bench in the gallery,” I say, the memory flooding back.
“And he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. It was so gentle, Nico. So deliberate. Like he was asking permission with every inch he moved closer. And I wanted it. I wanted him to kiss me so badly I could barely breathe.”
“And?”
“And then he leaned in. Slowly. Giving me every chance to pull away. But I didn’t want to pull away. I met him halfway. My eyes closed. And for this one perfect moment, I thought… I thought maybe I could do this.”
I set down my wine glass because my hands are shaking. “But then these teenagers burst into the gallery, laughing. And the moment shattered. And suddenly all I could feel was this panic rising in my chest like I was drowning.”
“Panic?”
“I had this voice in my head saying, ‘You’re being an idiot. You barely know him. What if he’s just like Preston?
What if this is all an act?’” I look at Nico, my eyes stinging.
“I told him I wasn’t ready. And he just…
he said he understood. That he’d wait. And then we sat there and he held my hand. ”
When I finish, Nico is quiet for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful. Then she says, “Okay. So here’s what I know.”
“You checked him out, didn’t you?” I interrupt, and it’s not really a question.
“After you told me about him? Of course, I did.” She shrugs unapologetically. “No criminal record. No angry exes. Solid family. Clean financial history. Industry gossip says he’s professional and keeps to himself. The worst thing anyone has ever said about him is that he’s ‘a little boring.’”
I let out a shaky breath. Part of me is relieved. Part of me is still terrified.
“That’s what scares me,” I finally admit. “He seems perfect. And the last time I met a man who seemed perfect, I ended up married to Preston.”
“Preston wasn’t perfect,” Nico says sharply. “Preston was a con artist who told you what you wanted to hear. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I stand up and start pacing. “What if I’m just doing this again? What if I’m so desperate to feel something good that I’m ignoring red flags? What if six months from now I find out he’s been lying about everything?”
Nico is quiet for a moment. Then she asks, “Has Wyatt lied to you?”
The question stops me cold. “What?”
“Has he lied to you? About anything?”
I think back. To the bookstore. To the café, when I confronted him about stalking me after finding the note I left behind. “No,” I say slowly. “He’s been… honest. Painfully honest.”
“And Preston?”
“Preston lied about everything from day one.” The truth of it settles in my chest. “He pretended to be someone he wasn’t. Wyatt’s not pretending to be anything. Not really. He told me straight up that modeling is just a paycheck. That photography is what he really wants.”
“So the problem isn’t that he’s lying to you,” Nico says gently. “The problem is you’re scared to trust your own judgment again.”
The words cut through all my defenses. Because she’s right.
Nico pulls me back down onto the couch. “Look, the divorce is filed. You walked away from that marriage the day you left, and Preston’s lawyers are scrambling to settle.
You’re getting divorced, Snow. The only thing left is paperwork and signatures.
” She squeezes my hand. “And for what it’s worth?
You waited until after you filed to even consider dating someone.
Preston was cheating for God knows how long while you were still trying to make the marriage work.
You don’t owe him loyalty to a marriage that’s already dead. ”
She pauses. “You’re not making any life-altering decisions here. You’re just seeing where this goes with a guy who, by the way, respected your boundaries when you said you weren’t ready. Preston never respected a boundary in his life.”
“Speaking of Preston,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “Has he tried anything since you quit? Since the confrontation at the house?”
Nico’s smile is pure satisfaction. “Radio silence. Complete and total radio silence. I think we broke him.”
“Patricia called yesterday,” I say. “His lawyers sent over a settlement offer. Preston wants this done fast and quiet before any more of his secrets come out.”
Nico leans forward, eyes gleaming. “How fast?”
“If I accept the terms, she thinks we could be divorced in three months. Maybe less.” I take a sip of wine. “Apparently, Bradford is using his connections to expedite things. Patricia says the rumor mill is churning, and word on the street is Preston’s already knocked up the next Mrs. Darlington.”
Nico chokes on her wine, sputtering and coughing, nearly spitting Cabernet all over her sofa.
“WHAT?” she wheezes, grabbing a napkin. “Oh my God. Oh my GOD.” She starts laughing, that deep, uncontrollable laughter that borders on hysterical.
“Lucky escape there, bestie. Can you imagine being tied to that trainwreck for another eighteen years of child support negotiations?”
I feel a surprised laugh bubble up in my chest. Three months ago, this news would have destroyed me. Now? “I dodged a nuclear missile.”
“Damn right you did.” Nico raises her glass. “To your ex-husband’s spectacularly terrible life choices.”
Three months. The number settles in my chest, heavy and light at the same time. “The terms are better than the post-nup he was planning to spring on me. Patricia’s negotiating a few more points. She’ll send me the full breakdown Monday.”
Nico squeezes my hand, her laughter fading into something fiercer. “He’s scared, Snow. You won.”
I did win. I walked out of that house with my head held high. I stood up to him. I got my stuff back. And now he’s the one trying to settle quickly, trying to make this go away before it gets messier.
“So here’s what I need you to hear,” Nico says, and her voice shifts to something fierce and loving.
“Preston spent six years convincing you that you were fragile. That you needed him. That you couldn’t trust yourself.
But you were never fragile, Snow. You walked away from a cheating husband.
You stood up to him in that house. You’re building a whole new life from scratch. None of that is fragile.”
Her eyes lock on mine. “The only power Preston has left is making you too scared to try again. Don’t give him that.”
The words hit me in the chest, sharp and true. I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from getting hurt again that I haven’t considered the cost of never trying. Of building walls so high that nothing good can get in, either.
“You’re right,” I whisper.
“I know I am.” She grins. “Now, let me be clear. You take your time. You make Mr Cardboard Cutout show you, with his actions, not his words, that he’s the real deal. And if he’s not? If he turns out to be just another pretty, empty box?”
She pauses, and her Brooklyn accent thickens with a protective rage that makes me love her more than ever. “If he hurts you, I know where to hide bodies. And I have three very loyal brothers who will be more than happy to help me dig.”
A real, genuine laugh bursts out of me. “I love you, you know that?”
“Of course you do. I’m amazing.” She refills both our wine glasses. “Now. When are you seeing him again?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He said he’d wait for me to be ready. So I guess… whenever I reach out?”
“And are you? Ready?”
Am I? I think about the way he looked at his photographs. The way he listened when I talked about my business plan. The way he held my hand and didn’t push for more. “Not ready for anything serious,” I say slowly. “But ready to see where this goes.”
“Good.” Nico raises her glass. “To trying.”
“To trying,” I echo, and we clink our glasses together.