Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
SOREN
I’ve done a lot of humiliating things for the sake of marketing.
Once, I filmed an entire reel in a bathtub full of rose petals reading an enemies-to-lovers novella while making “tortured soul” eye contact with the camera.
I’ve worn leather pants in summer. I’ve hosted a panel called Battle Mage But Make Him Daddy.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—has prepared me for the moment I step onto the floor of the Bookmas Bash wearing a matching ugly Christmas sweater with Ava Bell.
Mine has a dragon curled around a snow-dusted castle, breathing fire that conveniently spells Merry Christmas.
Hers features Santa’s sleigh rocking suspiciously on its runners, mistletoe dangling from the reins. One reindeer peeks back wide-eyed. Caption: Sleigh My Name, Sleigh My Name.
We seem to have lost a bet to two overcaffeinated publicists and the ghost of tacky Christmas.
Oh, wait, we did.
Renata’s eyes practically glow with glee. “How festive! The fans are going to eat this up. I’ve uploaded your sweaters to both your sites for merchandise orders.”
“If one more person asks if we coordinated our ‘couples look’ on purpose—”
“You did,” Camille says, casually, but grinning. “For the brand, obviously.”
I narrow my eyes. “You love this.”
“I do.”
Ava snakes an arm around my waist, attempting to calm me. “I think we look cute.”
I glance down at her. “Fine. I’ll wear it, but only because I’m a man who’s about to plunder Santa’s workshop and seduce a Jingle Bells heiress.” My nose nuzzles into her hair, and she giggles.
Pushing me away playfully, Ava shakes her head, still grinning. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Honestly?” My brows waggle. “Very little ever since this morning.”
How could I complain? Ava dropped to her knees on the shower floor, lips sliding down my cock until the steam fogged over and I was braced against the tile, bellowing her name while she swallowed every last drop like it was the only thing on the breakfast menu.
I barely staggered out of that shower alive.
My girl blushes and shoves a handful of Sharpies at me. “Go sit at your table, Book Daddy.”
After hours of signing, the holiday sweater Camille stuffed me into is hot, itchy, and suffocating me like a damn straitjacket. I can’t take it anymore.
“Camille,” I say, yanking at the offensive wool around my torso. “I’m done with this sweater. You can shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
Beside me, Ava snorts behind her hand.
Camille crosses her arms, arches a brow, then leans in so no one else can hear. “You signed a contract, Pembry. And we pay a shit ton of money to make you look good. You will wear the damn sweater.”
Ava is grinning, cheeks an adorable shade of pink.
Yeah. Nope.
“I’ll take my chances with hypothermia and public nudity,” I declare, then I rip the damn thing off.
There’s screaming. A woman drops her tote bag. Stickers fly like confetti. I spot a grown-ass man openly weeping near the fantasy map wall.
Without missing a beat, I ball up the sweater and chuck it into the crowd.
“Yesssssss!” someone yells.
“Oh my God!” Another screams.
“Lick his nipple!” a third voice chimes in.
I ignore all of them and turn back to Ava, who is now beet red and mid-eye roll.
I yank her into my bare chest and plant a kiss on her. The cameras go wild and dirty, and she’s speechless when I finally pull back.
The crowd loses its mind.
Phones are up. Flashes. Screeches. One woman faints—Fisher fans her with a vendor map while muttering on about OSHA violations.
Ava gapes at me.
“Merry Bookmas, baby.” I wink.
“You are insane.”
“Admit it… you’re a little turned on.”
One corner of her mouth curls back into the tiniest smirk.
Confirmation received.
My voice drops, for only her to hear. “Bet if I slid my hand between those gorgeous thighs right now, I’d find you wet, and aching for my flesh sword.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Find me a supply closet and five minutes, Bells, and I’ll tickle your tinsel.”
Ava’s eyes darken. She might actually say yes.
“Absolutely not,” Fisher snaps, appearing out of thin air as the ghost of Too Much PDA. “No closets. No cellars. No oral situations. No penetration. You two have scarred enough hotel employees to last a lifetime.”
Ava coughs into her fist, blushing even brighter.
I pull her up to standing, then step back with my hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened to your magic of Christmas?”
“It’s down below,” Fisher mutters without missing a beat, “exactly like yours.”
Before I can throw back a quip, the air shifts with a familiar presence.
There he is. Matthew. Best friend. Agent Extraordinaire.
His face says: What in the peppermint-dicked hell did I just walk into?
Another voice slices through the noise. “I’m confused.”
The words. The tone. Both hit like a bucket of ice water down the back.
Ava and I swivel in unison. So does Fisher.
Standing a few feet away, wearing a holly-red lip stain and a face full of arrogance, is Lena. One perfectly manicured brow arched. Arms crossed. Looking bitchy enough to frost the whole damn exhibit.
The crowd hushes, instinctively aware that something is about to shatter the holiday glow.
My gaze cuts to Camilla. One look, one silent question: How the hell did she get past security?
Camilla’s eyes widen. Her shrug screams don’t look at me, even as she fumbles for her phone, already barking into it for backup.
Lena’s smile is venom and velvet. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but I’ve been having a hard time wrapping my head around this whole— ” She gestures between Ava and me.
“—Thing. I mean, Soren Pembry, body collector, fantasy fuckboy, man who practically has a revolving door installed on his tour bus, is suddenly playing committed boyfriend to America’s romance sweetheart? ”
Ava stiffens beside me. Lena’s doing it again.
Same sweet poison, same performative interest. A pinch of empathy to make Ava second-guess everything.
Her voice isn’t only echoing off the walls, it’s reverberating through Ava’s cracks, slithering into every dark, doubtful corner I’ve spent weeks trying to silence, dragging Ava’s deepest fear into the light, using it for gossip and nothing but entertainment.
I should’ve known Lena wouldn’t let it go after the last encounter when she cornered Ava and dripped those same venom-laced doubts into her ear.
I told Ava I loved her that night.
She didn’t say it back.
I’ve told myself it was just a matter of timing. Nerves. She was overwhelmed. But a part of me wonders if Lena’s doubt missiles hit their mark.
And now Lena’s back—reloading.
“I mean, your viral feud was fun while it lasted,” Lena purrs, voice dripping with rotten sugar.
“The insults, the clips, the trends—you two were practically made for ShelfSpace. Was this the plan all along? Fake a rivalry, fake a romance, cash in the numbers?” Her smile cuts wider, cold and satisfied.
“Because if that’s the case—bravo. Really.
You’ve played the whole internet like a fiddle.
But guess what?” She leans forward, like she’s about to share a secret.
“I’m not buying it. And I’ll make damn sure nobody else does either. ”
Tension pours off Ava. This is the type of moment where most people would fold, duck for cover. But she doesn’t move.
Lena sees it, and her smirk grinds like a jagged blade. “Let’s see what happens when this little charade burns to ash. I’m going to expose the truth to everyone. Soon, they’ll see what’s really going on.”
The silence in the room thickens, weighted and ugly, until it’s begging to be broken.
So I fucking do.
I step forward, voice calm, eyes locked on Lena. “You know what’s funny?”
“Mmmm, what’s that?” Lena purrs.
“You strut in here acting like you’ve cracked some code, when really? You’ve missed the entire plot.”
Lena’s lips curl, her heavily lined eyes flashing challenge.
I don’t flinch. “If you think I need to fake-date Ava Bell to sell books or stay relevant, you clearly don’t know her. Or me.”
A ripple of nervous laughter breaks through the crowd, but I don’t take my eyes off Lena. I take another step closer, closing the space between us. She peers up at me, smirking.
“And here’s the real kicker—you call it fake, but I don’t need to pretend to want Ava Bell. Nor do I need a marketing plan to explain why I’m standing next to the most brilliant, infuriating, stunning woman I’ve ever met.”
Phones tilt up, cameras snapping.
I smile, wicked and deliberate. “So no, Lena. This isn’t some carefully staged stunt.
It’s me. Wanting her.” I point to Ava. “Choosing her. Every damn day.” I back up, arms open wide, until I’m next to Ava.
“This is me falling in love with the woman I was supposed to hate. This is her seeing through every bullshit layer I’ve ever built and kissing me anyway. This, Lena, is real.”
I let that hang there. Let it land.
Lena’s painted-on smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes harden to tiny shards of glass. She moves toward us, the click of her heels like gunshots in the silence, and once she’s close, she leans in and says, “We’ll see.”
My smirk turns deadly. “That we will. And if that threatens your worldview or your follower count, that sounds like a you problem.”
The crowd bursts into applause. But all I’m watching is Ava. Her eyes. Her mouth. Her lips parting slightly, as if she’s forgetting how to breathe.
I hope to hell she knows—
That wasn’t for the audience.
That was for her.
Later that evening, the Bookmas Bash plunges into its nighttime phase. With The Great Interrogation now safely in the rearview, thanks to an open bar, increased security, and Lena mysteriously developing laryngitis shortly after my speech.