Chapter Thirty-Nine
REBEKKA
This has been the best week of my life.
Not in the champagne-and-chandeliers way that a lot of peers measure happiness with.
Normally by Friday night, I’d have been paraded through two or three corporate dinners, smiling politely over five-course menus where Anthony talks business, and I die a little more inside with every sip of vintage Bordeaux.
This week, I’ve been working from Rian’s penthouse in my bare feet, with my laptop balanced on his kitchen island while he wanders through in joggers and no shirt, stealing my coffee and kissing the top of my head before heading out to one of his bars. But he’s always back within an hour.
I told Serena to cancel all my meetings or switch them to MSN Teams calls. I refuse to leave this beautiful bubble we’re cocooned in until I have to.
We’ve watched movies, curled up on his couch, ordered takeaway noodles at midnight, fallen asleep tangled in his sheets. I haven’t needed a sleep meditation all week.
It must be all the orgasms.
Or maybe it’s just him.
I feel a peace with him that I never felt in my life before.
Now I’ve stopped fighting it, stopped pretending everything was okay when it was so far from it, finally I can fall asleep at night.
Yes, I have worries, but I’m taking Rian’s advice, and I’m trying so hard not to dwell on them, and to see what unfolds. Rian assures me he’s looking for a solution, and the longer I’m here with him, the more desperately I’m hoping he finds one.
We haven’t left his penthouse. Haven’t done anything flashy or formal.
We’ve just hung out—albeit naked a lot of the time.
And God, it feels better than any Michelin-star meal ever could.
Which is probably why I’ve decided to do something utterly un-me tonight—cook.
I can’t even remember the last time I boiled an egg—there’s always been a housekeeper popping in and out, or a caterer, or Anthony sweeping me off to a restaurant before I even had the chance.
But growing up in New York, my mother used to take me to this little hole-in-the-wall diner near Central Park.
They sold burgers, milkshakes, fries so salty they left crystals on your lips. Pure comfort food. Home.
So tonight, that’s what I’m making for Rian.
The scent of frying onions and sizzling beef wafts through the penthouse, despite the fan humming above the stove.
I flip the burger patties with all the precision of a nervous amateur.
The sesame buns are warming in the oven.
The pickles are sliced and ready. American cheese melting.
A bottle of Beckett’s lager sweats on the counter beside me, waiting for him.
My phone has been buzzing all week—my mother demanding explanations. I gave her the full version. Left nothing out. I’m done hiding. Lying. Pretending.
She took it so much better than I thought, assuring me, even if I lose everything, my happiness is priceless.
We both know my father will have an entirely different opinion, but that’s another story.
At least I’ve paid back his original debt.
Anthony can take Remington Ireland, but he can’t take Remington New York.
My husband’s calls have alternated between threats and honeyed persuasion. From his angry voicemails, I gather he thinks I’m staying with Avery. Her terrifying fiancé is probably the only thing stopping him turning up at their door.
I’ve ignored every call. But tonight, especially, I refuse to let anyone intrude.
Tonight is my chance to do something for Rian.
He’s done so much for me.
I hear the familiar click of polished shoes across marble. My pulse jumps. I smooth my hair with the back of my wrist, swipe a smear of ketchup off the counter, and pray the smoke alarm doesn’t choose this moment to betray me.
Rian rounds the corner into the kitchen, loosening his tie. His suit jacket is slung over his shoulder. He looks tired, but when his eyes land on me—apron, spatula, the whole domestic goddess thing—they go wide.
‘Sweetheart,’ he drawls, dropping the jacket onto a stool. ‘Are you… cooking?’
‘Don’t sound so shocked,’ I laugh, though nerves bubble up in my throat. ‘I wanted to do something nice for you. A little taste of New York.’
‘I like what I’ve tasted of New York so far.’ His dark eyes gleam.
‘Oh no, buddy. I’ve slaved over this stove for you. You’re going to eat it before you get dessert.’ I press a kiss to his lips, then turn back to the cooker. ‘Sit. It’s almost ready.’
Instead, he slides his strong arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck as the burgers hiss on the pan. ‘You have no idea how good it feels to come home to you,’ he murmurs.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like a trophy wife or a bargaining chip.
I feel like a woman in love, making dinner for the man who makes me laugh until my cheeks ache, who makes me feel safe, wanted, alive.
Maybe this is what life could be.
It’s certainly what it should be.
I plate everything with more care than I’ve ever plated anything in my life, stacking the burgers high, sprinkling the fries with sea salt. It’s not going to win any cookery competitions, but it looks hearty, honest.
I set the plates down on the island and slide onto the stool beside him, tucking my legs under me. He’s already cracked open the beer I left waiting for him, watching me with a ridiculous mix of pride and hunger that makes my stomach flip.
I bump my shoulder against his, adopting my best housewife voice. ‘So, how was your day, dear?’
He smirks, eyes gleaming as he takes a long pull from his bottle before setting it down with a soft thud. ‘Better now.’ He leans in like he’s about to kiss me, then pauses, gaze darting to the plate. ‘Jesus, Bekka, this looks incredible.’
I laugh, shaking my head. ‘It’s only a burger. Don’t get used to it. This is a one-night-only special.’
‘Then I’m going to savour every bite,’ he says, low and serious now, the kind of tone that makes my chest tighten. He picks up a fry, dips it in ketchup, and holds it to my lips like feeding me is the most natural thing in the world.
I let him, smiling around the salty heat. ‘So… how are things at the office?’
I don’t want to ask outright if he’s any closer to finding a solution yet, but the urge to know is eating at me. With every day that passes, I’m increasingly certain I can’t go back to Anthony. Not now I know what real happiness feels like. Real love.
‘Meetings, the usual stuff. Nothing worth remembering,’ he says, brushing his thumb over the corner of my mouth where a dot of ketchup lingers. ‘This—’ he gestures to the kitchen, the plates, me—‘this is what I’ll remember about today.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere with me,’ I tease.
‘Good, because I’m hoping it’ll get you on your back, with your legs open, lingerie off the second I’ve devoured my dinner.’ I squeeze my thighs together as Rian licks salt off his thumb. He eyes me like I’m the only woman in the world. For a few blissful minutes, it feels like I am.
Then his phone buzzes against the counter.
He glances at the screen, and the smile slips.
Anthony.
Fuck.
Does he know I’m here? Or is it a social call? They are supposed to be friends.
Our eyes meet. My stomach drops.
Rian exhales slowly, jaw tightening. ‘Well,’ he mutters, turning the phone face down so the name disappears, ‘looks like the bastard’s finally figured out who to call.’
The burgers sit half-eaten between us.
‘Are you going to answer?’ I whisper.
He shakes his head once, firm. ‘Not tonight. Tonight’s ours.’
But the silence between us hums with what’s unsaid—if Anthony doesn’t already know—sooner or later, he’ll find out exactly who I’m with.
And there will be a war.
‘Hey.’ Rian cups my chin, tilting my face to look at his. ‘It’s going to be okay. My family and I are working on it. I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ I wish I could believe him—that it’s going to be alright, not that his family are working on things.
‘When he finds out I’m never going back, he won’t rest until he’s taken everything from me. My business. My reputation. Maybe even you.’
‘You’re never going back.’ He repeats the words slowly, like they’re only just sinking in.
‘Never. I can’t be without you,’ my voice cracks. ‘If you’ll have me.’
‘Of course I’ll have you.’ He reaches for me then, pressing a kiss to my temple. ‘I love you.’
‘And I love you.’ I glance down at the obscenely large diamond rings on my fingers—a statement of my husband’s wealth, not his affection. I slide them off, slowly, deliberately. My hand feels naked, but my soul feels liberated.
‘I may have nothing but the clothes on my back by the time he’s done with me,’ I sigh.
‘I’d prefer if he took them too. I love it when you’re naked.’ Rian slides his hand over my inner thigh with a smirk. ‘Wait!’ His head jerks up. ‘I think I found the solution.’