Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Vivienne
The cursor blinked once, then stopped. I hit save and closed the file labeled Ashes and Flamingos.
I'd started it in that gunpowder-stinking warehouse and spent six months finishing it. The upload bar crawled toward completion. When it hit one hundred percent, something that had been lodged in my chest for too long finally let go.
My inbox exploded. Literary agents, film producers, and—ironically—the publishing house that had kicked me to the curb last year, now waving a contract with triple the advance.
I leaned back. The validation I'd once craved tasted bland now. Less real than the morning light slicing through the blinds.
A knock.
Nikolai walked in with a tray. Charcoal loungewear, hair still damp from the shower. Left sleeve rolled to the elbow, exposing that pale scar where the bullet had grazed him. It still ached on rainy days, but it hadn't slowed him down in months.
"Six hours staring at that screen." He set the tray on the desk corner, next to a stack of thick Russian books. Broth, steamed vegetables, a small portion of salmon—his doctor's "pregnancy nutrition plan."
"I finished it." I stretched, my palm brushing my stomach. The curve was starting to show through the loose sweater.
He glanced at the screen. "Missing an ending."
"Isn't the last chapter the ending?"
"The real-life ending." He leaned down, breath warm against my ear. "The protagonist's real-life counterpart hasn't proposed yet."
I laughed and elbowed his side. "Who says I'm saying yes?"
"You will." His tone was certain. His fingers settled lightly on the curve of my belly. "Page three hundred twelve."
I rolled my eyes but took a sip of soup.
Perfect temperature.
While he handled emails on his tablet, I opened the backend analytics. Followers had blown past seven figures. A pinned discussion caught my eye.
"Okay, tell me I'm not alone—the Aleksei character is totally based on the author's real-life boyfriend, right?"
Over three thousand replies. Readers were doing frame-by-frame analysis.
Someone had compiled screenshots of every detail describing Aleksei.
The cold gray eyes narrowed around a cigarette, the old scar across his knuckles, the reddened fingertips wrapping a scarf around the heroine's neck on a snowy night... They were profiling him like the FBI.
I couldn't help but laugh. Then my eyes caught an older comment from two months back, recently upvoted to the top.
"Hope the author and Aleksei are happy. He deserves to be loved like that."
I stared at those words until the screen dimmed.
I'd spent months crafting Aleksei's coldness, his tenderness, his obsession. I thought I was creating fiction. I was wrong. What I'd been writing all along was the truth I was too afraid to admit—the man beside me deserved every bit of praise I'd written.
I quietly took a screenshot and saved it to my encrypted album.
"What are you looking at?" Nikolai asked without looking up.
"Nothing." I locked the screen and turned to him. Light cut across his profile, the line from brow to jaw sharp as sculpture, lashes casting tiny shadows below his eyes.
This moment was impossibly peaceful.
"Sasha's here," Mark announced from the door.
Nikolai closed the tablet and stood.
The door opened. Sasha stood there leaning on his cane, left leg saved but his gait still uneven. His expression was serious. "Mr. Pakhan, Ivan is at the estate gate. Says he wants to see you."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow, face blank. "Tell him I'm busy."
Sasha hesitated. "He said... he wants to see Ms. Cole too."
I was about to respond when Nikolai looked at me. "Do you want to see him?"
I thought about tomorrow's book signing and the pile of other things to do. "No," I waved it off. "Send him home."
"You heard her?" Nikolai told Sasha. "Show him out."
Sasha turned to leave. I caught a glimpse of pink fabric poking from his jacket—one of Mia's handmade embroidered sachets with crooked sunflowers.
"Wait," I called out, winking at Nikolai. "Sasha, did Mia give you another 'protection charm'?"
Sasha's ears went red. He nearly dropped the cane. "She... she said it wards off evil."
Nikolai snorted. "Go on."
Sasha practically fled.
I leaned against Nikolai, laughing until my stomach hurt. "Can't you tell? Mia's got it bad, and I bet Sasha's eating it up."
"Let them be." Nikolai wrapped an arm around my waist, unconcerned. "As long as they don't turn shootouts into date nights."
The next day, the book launch was packed.
Spotlights baked my cheeks as I held the microphone, finishing my speech about "rebirth and courage from the ashes." Thunderous applause. I smiled and bowed, scanning the crowd for that familiar figure.
Nothing. Strange—he'd been backstage with me minutes ago.
After the event ended, Mia grabbed me mysteriously. "Don't leave yet. Come with me."
"Where?"
"The roof."
The elevator shot to the top floor. The moment I pushed through the safety door, I froze.
Red carpet covered the concrete. White roses and eucalyptus lined both sides. Evening wind carried the scent of flowers. Above, the sky was deepening, and a helicopter passed low overhead, raining down pink petals like gentle snow.
At the end of the carpet, Nikolai stood waiting.
He'd changed into a sharp black suit, no tie, top two buttons undone. In his hands, a bouquet the color of flamingos—just like the one on my book cover.
He walked toward me, steps steady, eyes focused so intensely my heart skipped.
"Vivienne Cole." He stopped in front of me, voice low enough for only us to hear. "In your book, Aleksei created a very romantic proposal. I know that's what you hoped for. We've been through so much together. You're already an inseparable part of my life. Today, I want to ask you something—"
He dropped to one knee, pulling out a dark blue velvet box. In the fading light, the diamond refracted tiny, determined sparks.
"Will you marry me? Be my cherished partner for the rest of our lives?"
I looked at him. At the undisguised devotion in his eyes. At the nervous sweat beading his temple. At the pink-petaled sky behind him.
Tears fell without warning.
"Yes," I said. "I've been ready."
He stood, slowly sliding the ring onto my finger, then leaned down and kissed me.
The helicopter kept scattering petals. From below came Mia and Sasha's exaggerated cheers, but I couldn't hear any of it.
All I knew was this kiss held the gunpowder from the warehouse, the antiseptic from the operating room, every morning and evening of the past six months, and the shore we'd finally reached—the one called "future."