Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
AVA
The glitter has settled from the Snowflake Gala.
The suite is quiet. Lights dimmed. Champagne flutes still half-full on the marble bar.
My heels are somewhere near the sofa. And I’m standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows in this costly hotel, staring out at the glittering sprawl of the Chicago skyline, trying to breathe through the gnawing ache in my chest.
The entire night was a smashing success. Our photos are circulating online. There’s a shot of me laughing in Soren’s arms that is a new favorite of mine. A filtered video of us clinking glasses. A clip of him whispering in my ear and my entire body turning toward him as a sunflower in heat.
The world believes we’re together.
Our plan is working.
My notifications are exploding. My sales have doubled overnight. The Boyfriend Deadline is officially on the bestseller list, climbing, proving a point. ShelfSpace is frothing. There are fancams. Fancams, plural.
It’s everything I wanted. But beneath all the glitter and dopamine and breathless headlines, that familiar scratch is back.
The one that whispers don’t get too comfortable.
The one that hisses this is all too good to be true.
Because it is. Right?
Soren Pembry is too good to be true. He’s every fantasy rolled into six feet of danger and unexpected softness, and tonight—he was mine. Truthfully, mine.
He kissed me. He meant it. He touched me. He meant it. And then he made me scream in a break room as though I was precious and sweet and deserving.
But what if it doesn’t last?
What if I fall, and he lets go?
My fingers brush the cold glass. Soren comes up behind me without a word, his warmth folding over my skin like dusk. His hands settle on my hips, firm and grounding, and then his mouth finds my neck.
One kiss. Soft. Adoring. Laced with fire.
He trails another beneath my ear, and my breath shudders. “Are you ever going to come down from the clouds?”
“I’m...watching it all from a distance,” I whisper, voice thick with longing, but also fear. “Waiting for it to vanish.”
“It’s not going anywhere.” The conviction in his voice knocks the breath from my lungs.
His hands rise, sweeping the hair from my back. The tug of my zipper is a whisper against my spine. Then he exposes me inch by excruciating inch, savoring every second and breath.
Fabric slips away, warm air kissing bare skin, until the gown falls in a soft sigh around my feet into a puddle of crimson silk on the floor.
I’m bare except for my bra and panties. My heart pounds. And then he spins me.
I suck in a breath.
He’s naked. Completely. No warning. Definitely no apology.
Soren stands before me, gloriously bare, eyes brimming with heat, chest rising.
“Jesus.”
His mouth seizes mine in a kiss that’s full of hunger and promise and something unspoken thrumming beneath the surface. Fingers find my bra clasp. It falls away. My panties follow, his touch determined, confident.
Soren lifts me, effortlessly, then presses me gently against the cool glass. The contrast of heat and cold is blissful on so many levels.
My arms wind around his shoulders. And then he’s inside me. No pretense. Only a perfect thrust which knocks every thought out of my head.
His lips never leave mine. My legs wrap tighter around his waist, and Soren fucks me like he’s writing a scene he wants to read over and over again. Deep, achingly controlled.
Stormy eyes lock with mine as the skyline burns behind us. My name falls from his lips, along with a vow that I mean so much to him.
And I believe him.
For once, I let myself believe that I deserve this. That it’s not too good to be true.
Soren’s hips thrust, each inch of him burrowing into my soul.
The glass is cold at my back, but Soren is pure heat. His mouth trails along my jawline, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder as though he’s rediscovering geography he already owns. Every movement is deliberate. Every breath synced to mine.
My nails dig into his back, anchoring myself to him. I’m unraveling—beautifully, blissfully—and he knows it. He feels me.
“Let go,” he breathes against my throat. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. I’ve got you. Let me hear you.”
In one fluid motion, Soren spins us around and carries me across the suite. I’m weightless in his arms, legs still wrapped around his waist, heart pounding against his chest, every step powered by need.
When we hit the bed, he lowers me onto the mattress, climbs over me, and thrusts in deep—so much deeper—the new angle stealing the breath from my lungs.
“Oh my God—” I gasp, arching up into him, every nerve ending lit on fire.
“That’s it, Bells,” he rumbles. “Don’t hold back.”
Soren’s movements grow harder, more desperate as our bodies chase the end together. My hands clutch the sheets. My voice breaks on a moan.
And when I fall, I cry out his name, raw and unfiltered, and he follows me seconds later with a sound that’s torn from his chest. He presses his forehead to mine as we tremble together, wrapped around each other, breathless and spent.
The city glows before us. We glow too.
A few hours and several orgasms later, we’re wrapped in white sheets, the city hums beyond the windows. My limbs are heavy and warm, my skin tingling with aftershocks.
Soren lies beside me, one arm draped across my stomach, his other hand gently tracing lazy shapes along my thigh, soothing emotions buried deep within my body. He looks over, and that smile claims me.
“I’m still waiting for the moment the universe rips this all away,” I confess.
He gently kisses my forehead. “I know what you’ve been through, Bells. You’ve been bruised into thinking that you have to brace for impact every time something feels right, so please…know this.” His hand finds mine beneath the covers. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to hold on.”
My throat tightens. “Soren…”
He grins, lazy and devastating. “And maybe fuck you against a few more windows, if that helps drive the point home.”
I laugh. And then I curl into him, allowing my body to rest against his, allowing the truth of his words to settle deep into my bones.
And I know…I don’t have to run.
Not from this. Or from him.
The morning after the Snowflake Gala, the hotel restaurant is buzzing with espresso steam, hushed conversations laced with a hint of hungover glamour, and overpriced granola.
I’m seated at a white-linen table near the window in sunglasses and yesterday’s emotional whiplash—the place reeking of truffle oil and clean money.
Behind me, a woman is loudly explaining her Substack. Two tables over, someone’s ordering their Bloody Mary with “extra vibe.”
Across from me sits Fisher, sipping his brown sugar cortado as though he’s channeling the ghost of Miss Marple.
He hasn’t spoken since we sat down. But he’s looking.
Over the rim of his mug. Through the lenses of his aggressively judgmental tortoiseshell sunglasses.
Past the silver cloche the waiter set in front of him. And directly into my damn soul.
Adjusting in my seat, my thighs ache in a very pointed way. My dress is new, and my heartstrings are still braided into Soren from last night’s pillow talk.
Fisher sets his cup down with the elegance of someone who has seen the abyss and is now ready to conduct the inquisition.
“So,” he says, voice calm, casual, and full of judgment, “when exactly were you going to tell me that your fake boyfriend turned your cervix into a fogged-up window display?”
I freeze with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth. “Fisher.”
“Don’t Fisher me.”
I groan.
He sighs. “Just tell me—are you okay? Are you in love? Or was that a very well-earned, PR climax?”
“I—” My eyes skim his. My voice drops. “I don’t know. I think it’s more. It feels like more.”
“Okay. Good. Terrifying, obviously—but good.” His eyes dance with curiosity. “So are we talking exclusive boyfriend energy here, or did he rail you so thoroughly you blacked out on your publishing deadlines for a full two weeks?”
I roll my eyes.
A nearby guest glances over.
Fisher flags a passing waiter. “We’re going to need pancakes. Stat. She just had an emotional breakthrough, and her blood sugar’s dangerously low.”
Despite myself, I laugh, trying my best to ignore the panic still fluttering in my chest–a bird waiting for the storm.
But maybe the storm isn’t coming.
Could this be the time I finally get to stay in the sun? Even if it’s only for a little while.
Fisher lets the silence breathe for exactly three seconds while casually stirring his cortado. He’s about to decimate me with a smile.
“I mean, I filmed you two kissing at the axe-throwing place,” he says lightly. “Sure, I played it off like it was all fake dating sparkle for the fans, but let’s not pretend I missed the tongue.”
My jaw drops.
“And I know,” he continues, swirling his spoon, “your ice started melting the second we walked into your parents’ house.
You were nearly thawed during the one bed situation—don’t argue–I saw your face every morning when you came out of that room resembling a woman emotionally rearranged.
” He lifts his cup again, sips. “Which brings me to now.”
I brace.
“When did you actually start...fucking?”
“Jesus, Fisher.”
“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me, either, Ava. I’m asking a very valid, very best-guy-approved question. When did the vibes turn into vertical cardio?”
I stab a piece of cantaloupe. “It wasn’t some grand moment. It just… happened.” Well, actually, there was kind of a grand moment.
Fisher cocks his head, skeptical. “Things don’t just happen. This wasn’t a spontaneous fucking. There’s been enough tension between you two to power a small city. I want a date. A timestamp. A location. Preferably one I don’t need to spiritually cleanse.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “Soren convinced me to go on a date with him.”
Fisher freezes mid-sip, lowers his cup. “A real date?”
Nodding, my eyes stay on my plate. “Yeah. No cameras. No Renata. No Camille. Or you. Only… us.”
“Okay. And?”