CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ruben
The leather chair beneath me fits like a throne. Broad, commanding, built for men who make decisions that ripple through the world. I sit like I own the damn thing, but right now, I’m waiting for judgment.
Joe Alden, president of the firm, watches me from behind his monolithic mahogany desk, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. The only thing between us is a thick, weighty envelope, its presence like a loaded gun on the table. But before we get to that, he opens with something else.
“How’s that wonderful girl of yours doing?”
Smooth. A good way to start. He met Lennon the day after the incident. Of course, the whole firm knows what happened with Fisher. Aiden thought he could get away with it. He thought Lennon was still something he could control, something he could twist and I was the knight in his play. Now, he’s behind bars where he belongs, and I’m going to make sure he loses everything.
“We’re pressing charges,” I say, voice calm and controlled. But the fight hasn’t left me, not really. It’s still there, simmering under my skin. “I want Lennon to take what’s left of his estate. Not because she needs it or wants it, but because justice isn’t just about punishment. It’s about taking power away from men who think they own the world and act without thinking of the consequences.”
Joe nods, like he understands. “And Lennon?”
“She’s strong.” The words come easily because they’re true. Her strength humbles me in ways that make me want to kneel at her feet and vow my life to protect her. “She’s recovering fast.”
“One in a million.” His gaze flickers to the only personal picture he holds in his office, a framed photo of his wife, Lauren.
I don’t hesitate. “She’s the one for me.”
The admission settles in the air, thick and unshakable. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. Lennon is mine, and nothing, no one , is taking her from me.
Joe smirks. “Then you better put a ring on her soon.”
I huff out a short laugh, shaking my head. This is surreal, my boss giving me advice on my personal life, as if I need it. “I will.”
He doesn’t need to know that plans are already in motion. I’ve spent nights thinking about the right moment, the right way to make her mine in every sense of the word.
Joe leans back, studying me, then slides the envelope across the desk. “So, we’re giving you a push. In case you need it.”
I pick it up, weighing it in my hands. Thick. Heavy. It already feels important.
“Congratulations, Ruben,” Joe says, voice smooth and practiced. “You’re officially a senior partner.”
The words take a second to land. Senior partner.
The title I’ve been chasing since I set foot in this firm. The years, the sacrifices, the pressure, the fights—everything I’ve clawed my way through crystallizes into this moment.
My name will be on the door. My influence will be undeniable.
I let out a slow breath, absorbing it.
I should feel victorious.
And I do.
But what matters more than all of this—the title, the prestige, the power—is the woman waiting for me at home.
Lennon.
I set the envelope down, my decision already made. I’m taking this win, but it’s just another step.
“Thank you, Joe,” I manage, my voice steady despite the adrenaline rushing through me. “I’m honored.”
Joe leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’ve earned it. Your work on the Bacci case is exceptional, and the way you managed Fisher. Difficult circumstances, but you’re handling it with integrity. That’s the kind of leadership we need at the top.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more. Aiden—what a tangled mess that was. But Lennon… She made it worth it. Every late night and every dilemma led me to her.
Joe gestures to the envelope. “Open it.”
Inside is the formal offer letter, details of my new position, and a breakdown of the financials. My eyes skim over the numbers: a pay raise that’ll make my bank account sing, and a promotion bonus hefty enough to make my head spin.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Joe says with a grin.
“It is,” I reply, swallowing the lump of emotion threatening to rise. “Thank you again.”
“We’re expecting great things from you, Ruben. Keep making us proud.”
With that, the meeting wraps up, and I leave his office with the envelope clutched in my hand. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, my first thought isn’t about the promotion or the bonus. It’s about Lennon.
I need to call her. Hell, I need to see her. To celebrate. But first, I have something important to take care of.
? ? ?
Standing in front of the sleek display case at the jewelry store, I feel like I’ve entered an alternate dimension. The overhead lights make every diamond sparkle like stars in a velvet sky, and the sales associate’s polite smile is as dazzling as the merchandise.
“Are you looking for anything specific?” she asks, her tone professional but warm.
I glance at the rows of engagement rings, suddenly feeling out of my depth. “I’m looking for a ring. Something perfect.”
Her smile widens. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Do you have an idea of what your future fiancée might like?”
And that’s when it hits me: I have no idea. Lennon’s taste is classic yet unique, bold yet understated. She’s a paradox in the best way, and picking the right ring feels like solving an impossible puzzle.
I step back, pulling my phone from my pocket. Gabriel will know what to do. He always does.
“Pinterest , hermano . I’m telling you,” Gabriel says, his voice crackling slightly through the speakerphone. “Every woman has a Pinterest board for this stuff. You just need to find hers.”
“Pinterest? Really?” I glance around the store, feeling conspicuous and slightly ridiculous.
“I’m dead serious. Women usually have a fixed idea of what they want, and they’re going to wear that ring every day for the rest of their lives. You better do this right.”
I run a hand through my hair. “And what if I can’t find her Pinterest board?”
Gabriel laughs. “Then you’re on your own. But hey, don’t overthink it. When you know, you know. And it sounds like you know.”
“I do,” I say without hesitation.
“Then stop stressing. She’ll love it because it’s from you.”
I end the call feeling a little more confident. Gabriel’s right—when you know, you know. And I know Lennon’s the one.
Back inside the store, I try to focus. The sales associate lays out a tray of rings, each one more dazzling than the last. Pristine diamonds, sleek settings, modern cuts—none of them feel right. They’re beautiful, sure, but not her. Not Lennon.
I lean against the counter, my fingers drumming lightly on the glass. The associate is saying something about princess cuts versus round brilliants, but her voice fades into the background. My mind is elsewhere, turning over everything I know about Lennon.
What does she value most? Authenticity, history, character. She’s the kind of woman who’d choose a story over sparkle any day. Her soul is rooted in meaning, in the past, in things that endure. She wouldn’t want something that feels mass-produced or trendy, no matter how expensive it is.
“This isn’t it,” I mutter, more to myself than to the associate.
She looks confused. “We have other designs in our private collection. Perhaps—”
“No, thank you,” I cut her off gently but firmly, already stepping away.
Outside, the street is busy with the hum of midday. The cool air clears my head as I wander aimlessly, keeping my eyes open for… something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll know it when I see it.
And then I do.
A small antique store with a charmingly faded sign sits tucked between a café and a boutique. The display window isn’t flashy, no bold lettering or flashy showcases, but there’s a quiet elegance to it. My gaze catches on a ring, sitting almost casually in a velvet-lined case. It stops me in my tracks.
That’s it.
The bell above the door chimes softly as I step inside. The shop smells faintly of polished wood and timeworn books, and a faint classical melody plays in the background. An older woman behind the counter looks up and smiles warmly.
“Looking for something special?” she asks.
“Unique,” I reply, glancing back at the window. “That ring in the display. Can I see it?”
She nods, retrieving it carefully and laying it out on a velvet pad. As she begins to describe it, her voice takes on a reverent tone, like she’s sharing the story of a treasure.
“This piece is a late-Edwardian, early-Art Deco design, hand-fabricated in platinum around 1920,” she says, holding it up to the light. The diamond catches the sunlight streaming through the window, casting tiny rainbows across the walls. “The centerpiece is a 2.07carat, old European cut diamond, brilliant and bright-white, surrounded by a dome of single-cut diamonds. The detailing is extraordinary, artful piercing, fine milgrain edging, and an engraved shank with a crisp neoclassical acanthus leaf motif.”
She pauses, her eyes sparkling with pride. “It’s the kind of craftsmanship you just don’t see anymore. A true heirloom piece, meant to be cherished for generations.”
As she speaks, I don’t see the ring. I see Lennon. Her fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her hands fly up when she’s explaining something she’s passionate about. The way she holds a cup of tea on a lazy Sunday morning, her thumb tracing the rim absentmindedly.
This ring belongs to her.
“I’ll take it,” I say, my voice steady with certainty.
The woman smiles knowingly, as if she’s heard a thousand love stories in her time. “Excellent choice. Let me wrap this up for you.”
I nod, watching as she carefully places the ring back in its velvet box. My heart pounds, a mix of excitement and nerves. This isn’t just a ring. It’s a promise. It’s a declaration, a step toward forever.
She rings me up, and as I slide my card across the counter, she glances at me with a curious smile. “You seem sure,” she says.
“When you know, you know,” I reply simply.
Her smile widens, and she hands me the small velvet box. “Then she’s a lucky woman.”
No, I think. I’m the lucky one.
I leave the shop, the box tucked safely in my pocket, and step back onto the busy street. The sun is brighter, the air feels lighter, and for the first time in a long while, I feel completely, utterly certain.
Now, I just have to figure out the perfect way to ask her.