Chapter Thirty-Three #2
“Because it’s true. And because he loves you too much to let you carry guilt that isn’t yours.” She squeezes my hand again. “Let it go, Marley. Derek is exactly where he belongs. We’re here, alive, happy, together. Don’t waste another moment on what-ifs.”
I nod, swallowing hard against the emotion. “Thank you, Queenie.”
“For what?”
“For loving me. For accepting me into your family. For raising the most incredible man I’ve ever known.”
She smiles, soft and maternal. “Thank you for loving my boy exactly as he is. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him.”
We hear footsteps on the stairs, and moments later, Nitro appears in the kitchen doorway, his hair adorably rumpled, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants that make my mouth go dry. Even after months, after countless mornings waking up beside him, the sight of him still makes my heart race.
“My two favorite women,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. “Plotting something?”
“Always,” Queenie replies cheerfully. “We’re planning your birthday party. Thinking circus theme. Maybe hire some clowns.”
“Absolutely not!” He moves behind me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before reaching for the coffee I poured him. “No clowns. I draw the line at clowns.”
“What about a mariachi band?” I suggest leaning back against his bare chest. “Or interpretive dancers?”
“You’re both hilarious.”
“We know,” Queenie and I say in unison, then dissolve into laughter.
Nitro shakes his head, but his smile is genuine, reaching all the way to his eyes. This is what happiness looks like on him. Not the corporate smile he used to wear like armor but real joy. Unguarded and free.
“I’m going to shower,” Queenie announces, sliding off her stool. “You two kids behave yourselves.”
“Always do,” Nitro calls after her, then waits exactly three seconds after she’s out of earshot before spinning me around and lifting me onto the counter.
“Nitro!” I squeal, laughing as he steps between my legs. “She literally just left.”
“I heard you talking,” he murmurs against my neck, his hands spanning my waist. “About Derek. About guilt.”
My laughter fades. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” He pulls back to look at me, his dark eyes serious. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say honestly. “Queenie helped. She’s good at that.”
“She’s the best.” His thumbs trace circles on my hips. “But so are you, Small Town. You saved me six months ago. You save me every damn day.”
“You saved yourself,” I argue softly. “I just stood beside you while you did.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You held me together when I was falling apart. You believed in me when the whole world thought I was an attempted murderer. You loved me through the worst shit I’ve ever been through, and you never wavered. Not once. Even after I lied to you.”
“Because I love you,” I whisper. “All of you. That’s never going to change.”
Then he leans in and kisses me, deep and slow, tasting like coffee and promise. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“I need to get ready for work,” I murmur against his lips.
“Call in sick.”
“I’m the Creative Director. I can’t just call in sick.”
“You’re the Creative Director who’s also the boss’s Old Lady. I think they’ll make an exception.”
I laugh, pushing at his chest. “That’s exactly why I can’t call in sick. I have to work twice as hard to prove I earned this position.”
“Everyone knows you earned it.” His voice is fierce with pride.
“You’re crushing it at Blackwell, Marley.
The Colosseum campaign you spearheaded? Brilliant.
The social media strategy you implemented?
Increased engagement by forty percent. You’re not riding my coattails, baby. You’re making your own path.”
Warmth floods through me. Six months ago, I was terrified of being seen as the boss’s girlfriend who got a cushy job through connections.
But I’ve proven myself, campaign after campaign, strategy after strategy.
The whispers have stopped. Now, when people see me in the office, they see Marley Wren, Creative Director, not just Damon Blackwell’s girl.
Though I’m definitely still Damon Blackwell’s girl.
And Nitro’s Old Lady.
“What time is your meeting with the board?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.
“Two o’clock.” He grimaces slightly. “They want to discuss the new acquisition. It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
“You’ve got this. You always do.”
“Because I have you to come home to.” He kisses my forehead. “That makes everything else bearable.”
I slide off the counter, and we move through our morning routine with practiced ease.
Six months of living together have taught us each other’s rhythms. He showers first while I make breakfast. I curl my hair while he answers emails.
We move around each other like dancers who’ve memorized the choreography.
By the time I’m dressed for work, a burgundy sheath dress that hugs my curves in a way that makes Nitro’s eyes darken appreciatively, Queenie has emerged from her suite looking refreshed and ready for the day.
“You look beautiful, dear,” she says, settling at the kitchen table with the crossword puzzle she does every morning.
“Thank you.” I grab my coffee mug, now refilled with my third cup. “Do you need anything before I head out?”
“I’m perfectly fine. Millie’s stopping by this afternoon. We’re going to bake cookies for Victoria’s baby shower.”
My heart warms at the mention of Millie. The sweet young woman has become a fixture in our lives, and watching her friendship with Queenie blossom has been one of the unexpected joys of the last six months.
“Save me some chocolate chip,” I call over my shoulder as I grab my laptop bag.
“No promises!”
Nitro walks me to my car, a sleek Honda Civic I bought myself with my first big bonus from Blackwell.
He’d offered to buy me something flashier, but I’d refused.
This car represents my independence, my success, something I earned on my own merit.
And the Honda reminds me of how Nitro and I first met—sentimental attachment and all that.
“Drive safe,” he murmurs, pulling me against him for one last kiss. “Text me when you get there.”
“You’re worse than Beck,” I tease, but I love it. Love that he worries, that he cares, that even after everything we’ve been through, he still wants to make sure I’m safe.
“Beck and I have an understanding. We’re both in the business of keeping you happy and safe.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky us,” he corrects, then steps back to let me leave.
I watch him in my rearview mirror as I pull out of the driveway, standing there in his jeans and T-shirt, looking every inch the biker VP he is. No expensive suit to hide behind, no corporate mask. Just Nitro. Just Damon. Just the man I love in all his complicated, beautiful entirety.
The drive to Blackwell Entertainment Group gives me time to think about how much has changed in six months. The headquarters building rises against the Vegas skyline, all glass, steel, and modern architecture. Six months ago, walking into this building made me anxious. Now it feels like home.
My office is on the seventh floor, with a view of the Strip that never gets old. The nameplate on my door reads ‘Marley Wren, Creative Director,’ and every time I see it, I feel a surge of pride.
“Morning, boss lady,” Hailey from accounting calls as I pass her desk.
“Morning, Hailey. How was your weekend?”
“Amazing! Got engaged!” She flashes her hand, revealing a modest yet beautiful ring.
“Oh my God, congratulations,” I gush, genuinely thrilled for her. “Details! I need all the details.”
She launches into the story while I pour myself yet another coffee from the break room. This is what I love about working here. The people are real, kind, and supportive, not like Derek’s firm, where everyone was competing, backstabbing, and miserable.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Nitro the Nice Uber Guy: Made it safe?
I smile, loving that still after all this time, I haven’t changed his name in my cell, and I type out my response.
Me: Yes, old man. I’m at my desk. Alive and well.
Nitro the Nice Uber Guy: Good. Love you, Small Town.
Me: Love you too, City Boy.
The morning passes in a blur of meetings and strategy sessions. We’re launching a new campaign for one of the casino properties, and I’m presenting the creative concept to the executive team at eleven. By the time I’m walking into the conference room, my nerves are humming with anticipation.
And then I see him.
Damon Blackwell, CEO, sitting at the head of the table in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his expression all business. This is the side of him that most of the company knows. Polished, professional, untouchable.
But when his eyes meet mine across the table, they soften. Just for a second. Just enough for me to see Nitro beneath the corporate armor.
“Ms. Wren,” he says formally, but there’s warmth in his voice. “Please, walk us through your proposal.”
I launch into my presentation, and I’m good at this. The months of proving myself have honed my confidence and sharpened my skills. I watch the executives lean forward, engaged and interested. I field questions with ease, defend my creative choices with data and market research.
When I finish, there’s a beat of silence.
Then applause.
“Brilliant work, Marley,” says Christine, the COO. “This is exactly the direction we need to take.”
“Agreed,” adds Marcus from operations. “When can we launch?”
I glance at Damon, and his smile is small but proud. “That’s up to the creative team’s timeline,” he says. “Ms. Wren, what are you thinking?”
“We can have assets ready within three weeks,” I say confidently. “Full launch by the end of the month.”
“Make it happen,” Damon says, and that’s that.
As everyone files out of the conference room, Damon catches my arm gently. “Got a minute?”
I nod, and he closes the door behind the last executive. Alone in the conference room, the dynamic shifts. He’s not the CEO anymore. He is Nitro, my man, looking at me like he’s about to go full badass biker on me.
“You were incredible,” he says, pulling me against him. “I wanted to stop the meeting halfway through just to tell you how proud I am, but that probably would’ve been unprofessional.”
I laugh against his chest. “Probably. We’re trying to maintain that whole professional-boundaries thing, remember?”
“Fuck professional boundaries.” He tilts my chin up and kisses me, deep, thorough, and completely possessive. “You’re mine, and I’m proud as hell.”
“I’m proud of me too,” I admit softly. “I never would’ve believed I’d get here. Creative Director, I mean, presenting to the executive team. Making a real difference.”
“Six months ago, you were fighting through the worst situation imaginable. And you came out stronger.”
“We both did.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “Yeah. We did.”
A knock on the door makes us jump apart.
Damon clears his throat and straightens his tie while I smooth my dress.
“Come in,” he calls.
His assistant pokes her head in. “Mr. Blackwell, your two o’clock is here.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I’ll be right there.” He waits until she leaves, then turns back to me. “Dinner tonight? Just us? Queenie mentioned wanting to have dinner with Millie anyway.”
“Sounds perfect. Where?”
“I was thinking of that little Italian place you love. The one with the homemade pasta.”
My heart melts a little more. He remembers. He always remembers the little things that make me happy.
“It’s a date.”
He kisses me one more time, quick and sweet, then becomes Damon Blackwell again—shoulders back, expression neutral, ready to face his board meeting.
I watch him go, then head back to my office with a ridiculous smile on my face.