Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gunnar
I've faced down traffickers with guns.
I've taken a knife to the side and kept fighting.
I've stared death in the face and refused to blink.
But standing outside Fenrir's office at the clubhouse, my palms are sweating like I'm a teenager asking a girl to prom.
This is different.
This matters more than anything I've ever done in my entire fucking life.
I take a breath and knock.
"Come in," Fenrir's voice calls.
I push open the door.
Fenrir's behind his desk, paperwork spread in front of him.
Charm's on the small couch against the wall, flipping through what looks like supply orders for the spa.
They both look up when I enter.
"Gunnar." Fenrir sets down his pen. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Everything's fine. I just—" I clear my throat. "I was hoping I could talk to you both. Privately."
Charm's eyebrows rise.
She exchanges a look with Fenrir—one of those married-couple looks that communicates entire conversations in a single glance.
"Of course, honey." She sets aside her papers. "Close the door."
I do.
Then I stand there like an idiot, trying to remember the speech I rehearsed in my head all morning.
"You going to sit?" Fenrir asks.
"No. I think I need to stand for this."
Another exchanged look.
Charm's expression shifts from curious to something softer.
Like she's starting to suspect.
"I love your daughter," I say.
The words come out stronger than I expected.
More certain.
Because they are certain.
They're the most certain thing I've ever known.
"I've loved her for years. Longer than I admitted to myself.
Longer than I had any right to, watching her from a distance, waiting for her to see me as more than just a friend.
" I swallow hard. "And now that I have her—now that she's mine and I'm hers—I don't want to wait anymore.
I don't want to waste a single day pretending that what we have is anything less than forever. "
Charm's hand comes up to cover her mouth.
Her eyes are already glistening.
Fenrir's expression is unreadable.
Stoic.
The VP mask is firmly in place.
"I almost died," I continue. "And when I was lying on that table, bleeding out, the only thing I could think about was Ingrid.
About all the things I hadn't said. All the moments I hadn't given her.
All the future I might never get to have.
" I meet Fenrir's eyes. "I'm not wasting any more time.
I want to marry her. And I'm asking—both of you—for your blessing. "
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
Charm breaks first.
A sob escapes her, tears spilling down her cheeks, and she's on her feet and crossing the room before I can react.
She pulls me into a hug so fierce it makes my still-healing side ache.
I don't care.
"Yes," she whispers against my shoulder. "Yes, of course yes. Oh, Gunnar—"
She pulls back, cups my face in her hands the same way Ingrid does.
I can see where Ingrid gets it from.
"You wonderful, wonderful man. Of course you have my blessing. I've been hoping—praying—that someone would love her the way she deserves. The way she's always deserved."
"I do love her. More than I can say."
"I know you do." She wipes her eyes, laughing at herself. "Look at me, falling apart. Fenrir, say something."
I turn to look at the VP.
He's standing now, having risen from his desk at some point.
His expression has shifted.
Still controlled.
But there's something warmer underneath.
Something that looks like approval.
"You already have my blessing," he says.
"You've had it since you took a knife trying to save those kids.
Since you proved you'd die for what's right.
" He moves closer, extends his hand. "But more than that—you've had it since you started showing up for my daughter.
Every time she spiraled. Every time she needed someone.
You were there. You've been proving yourself for years, Gunnar. This is just making it official."
I take his hand.
His grip is strong.
Certain.
"Thank you," I say. "Both of you."
"Don't thank us," Charm says, still wiping tears. "Just make her happy. That's all we've ever wanted."
"I will. I swear I will."
"When are you planning to ask her?" Fenrir asks.
"Today. If I can find the right ring."
Charm's face lights up.
"You don't have a ring yet?"
"No. I wanted to get your blessing first. And I was hoping—" I hesitate. "I was hoping maybe you could help me pick something out. Something she'd love."
"Are you kidding?" Charm grabs her purse from the couch. "I've been waiting for this moment since she was born. Fenrir, we're going ring shopping."
"We?"
"Fine. Gunnar and I are going ring shopping. You hold down the fort." She kisses her husband on the cheek, then hooks her arm through mine. "Come on, future son-in-law. Let's go find my daughter the perfect ring."
Charm knows exactly where to go.
A small jewelry store about fifteen minutes from the clubhouse—family owned, three generations, the kind of place where they know their customers by name.
"I've been coming here for years," Charm explains as we walk in. "They did my wedding ring. Astrid's too. They're good people. They'll take care of you."
An older woman behind the counter looks up when we enter.
Her face breaks into a smile.
"Charm! It's been too long. What brings you in today?"
"My daughter's getting engaged." Charm's voice cracks slightly on the words. "We need a ring."
The woman—her nametag says Eleanor—beams at me. "And you must be the lucky young man. Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"Now, tell me about her. What's her style? What does she like?"
I open my mouth to answer, but Charm beats me to it.
"She's classic. Elegant. Nothing too flashy—she'd hate anything ostentatious. But she has fire in her, too. She needs something with personality. Something that stands out without trying too hard."
Eleanor nods thoughtfully. "Color preference? Traditional diamond, or something with more character?"
"Emerald," I say.
Both women look at me.
"Her eyes," I explain. "They're green. This incredible shade of green that I've never seen on anyone else. I want something that matches. Something that reminds me of her every time I look at it."
Charm's eyes fill with tears again.
"Oh, Gunnar."
"That's beautiful," Eleanor says softly. "I think I have exactly what you're looking for."
She disappears into the back.
Returns with a velvet tray of rings.
"Emeralds with diamond accents," she explains. "Various settings. Various price points. Let's see what speaks to you."
I scan the tray.
Some are too big.
Too flashy.
Some are too simple.
Not enough.
Then I see it.
Third row, near the edge.
A vintage-style ring with an oval emerald at the center, surrounded by a halo of small diamonds.
The band is white gold, delicate but sturdy, with tiny diamonds trailing down the sides.
It's elegant.
Classic.
But with personality.
Just like Ingrid.
"That one," I say. "Can I see that one?"
Eleanor lifts it from the tray, hands it to me.
It's heavier than I expected.
Solid.
Real.
"This is beautiful work," Charm breathes, leaning in to look. "Eleanor, where did this come from?"
"Estate piece. Came in about six months ago. The original owner was a woman who wore it for fifty years before she passed. Her granddaughter said she wanted it to find a new love story." Eleanor smiles. "I think this might be that story."
Fifty years.
A lifetime of love, contained in this small circle of metal and stone.
"How much?" I ask.
"Thirty-two hundred."
Under budget.
Perfect.
"I'll take it."
"Don't you want to look at others?" Charm asks. "Make sure?"
"I'm sure." I turn the ring in my fingers, watching the emerald catch the light. "This is the one. I knew it the second I saw it."
"Just like you knew with Ingrid," Charm says softly.
"Just like I knew with Ingrid."
Eleanor boxes the ring while I pay.
Charm cries the entire time.
Happy tears, she assures me.
The happiest tears she's cried in years.
When we walk out of the store, ring box burning a hole in my pocket, she pulls me into another hug.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For loving her. For seeing her when she couldn't see herself. For being patient enough to wait until she was ready." She pulls back, wipes her eyes. "She's my baby. My youngest. And she's been hurting for so long. To see her finally happy—finally loved the way she deserves—it means everything."
"She means everything. To me."
"I know." She pats my cheek. "Now go. You have an apartment to see and a proposal to make. And Gunnar?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't wait too long. Life's too short for waiting."
"I know. I learned that the hard way."
Ingrid's practically vibrating with excitement when I pick her up.
"I can't believe we're actually doing this," she says, climbing into my truck. "Our own place. A real house. Not a room at the clubhouse, not a space in someone else's house—ours."
"Ours," I agree.
The ring box is in my pocket.
Heavy.
Present.
A constant reminder of what I'm about to do.
She doesn't notice my nerves.
Too busy talking about paint colors and furniture and whether we should get a sectional or two separate couches.
I let her talk.
Let her excitement wash over me.
Let myself imagine this future she's building with her words.
Our future.
The house is exactly as I remembered from the photos.
Maybe better.
The landlord—a middle-aged woman named Patty—meets us at the door, all smiles and efficiency.
"You must be Gunnar and Ingrid. So nice to meet you both. Come in, come in."
The space opens up before us.
Open floor plan, just like the listing said.
Kitchen to the right—actual counter space, actual cabinets, a massive stove.
Living room straight ahead—big windows letting in afternoon light, enough room for real furniture.