Chapter 22
“He won’t forgive me,” she said, her voice barely louder than the breeze rustling through the sea grass. “I destroyed everything.”
Eleanor Beauchamp studied her from the adjacent wicker chair, the ocean breeze ruffling her silver hair. “You give yourself too much credit, my dear. And him too little.”
The Beauchamp estate stretched before them, manicured gardens cascading down to a private beach. So different from her cramped Brooklyn apartment or the crowded streets of Manhattan. A different world. One where people like her didn’t belong.
“I stood there with the entire office watching, your husband included, and announced our engagement was fake. A business strategy. A lie. I betrayed his trust.”
“Yes, you did,” Eleanor agreed, her bluntness startling. “But the question isn’t whether you made a mistake. We all do that. The question is why you’re here.”
She turned to face her host, struck by the directness of Eleanor’s gaze. No judgment, but no coddling either.
“I want to fix it. The deal, at least. The company. Those people don’t deserve to lose their jobs because of me.”
“Only the company?” Eleanor asked, her eyes sharp with perception.
Heat crept up her neck. “What else could I hope to fix?” she asked.
“I think you know.” Eleanor set her cup down on the small table between them. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come all this way.”
Devney glanced away, her gaze skimming the horizon. The trip had been exhausting—a pre-dawn bus to Woods Hole, the morning ferry to the Vineyard, then an overpriced taxi across the island.
“I love him,” she admitted, the words spilling out. “I didn’t plan to. It was supposed to be a business arrangement. A fake engagement to secure your husband’s investment. But somewhere along the way love happened.”
“The pretend became real,” Eleanor said.
“Yes.” She twisted her hands in her lap, feeling strangely naked without the ring she’d left behind. “But that doesn’t matter now. He’ll never trust me again. And I don’t blame him.”
Eleanor leaned back, hands resting in her lap, expression distant as the breeze played with the loose strands of her hair.
“Let me tell you a story,” Eleanor said. One I’ve never told anyone.” Her gaze drifted toward the horizon, the distant waves reflected in her eyes. “Not even Andrew.”Devney sat up, curious.
“When I was younger,” Eleanor began, her voice hushed, “I was infatuated with a man named Charles Whitmore.” A small, quiet laugh escaped her.
“He was handsome. Charming. He always knew exactly what to say and when to say it. And I…” She shook her head.
“I was young enough to believe that words were the truest reflection of a person.”
Devney tilted her head. “What happened?”
Eleanor’s focus stayed on the water. “Charles made me feel like the center of his universe when he spoke. But words are easy. What I didn’t notice—what I didn’t know how to look for—were the things he didn’t say.”
She leaned in. “The things he didn’t say?”
The older woman nodded slowly, still watching the tide roll in.
“Yes. Like how he never asked how my day had been when I was quiet. Or how he never noticed when I was cold and didn’t offer his coat.
He’d plan grand dates, dazzling affairs meant to impress, but he never remembered that I hated oysters or I preferred tea over coffee.
“He showed me exactly who he was, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was young,” Eleanor said, finally turning back. “And I mistook the noise for substance. I thought love was about the big moments, the declarations, the grand gestures. But it’s not.”
Her voice dropped, certain now. “Love is in the quiet things. The unspoken acts. The small details you notice.”
Devney thought of Ronan.
Eleanor’s hands settled in her lap, her voice kind.
“Like how Andrew always refills my teacup before I realize it’s empty.
Or how he used to fix the loose hinge on the kitchen cabinet without saying a word because he knew it annoyed me.
” A gentler light came into her eyes. “Or how he noticed—before I ever did—that my favorite perfume was running low and ordered another bottle.”
Devney thought back to moments with Ronan.
The way he adjusted the thermostat in his office when he noticed her shiver.
The sunflowers he brought after she mentioned her grandmother’s garden.
The way he always made sure her favorite sparkling water was stocked in the office fridge.
Little things, like how she liked her coffee.
The quiet things. Things that spoke louder than words ever could.
“Men don’t always tell you what matters,” Eleanor said. “But they show you. In ways they don’t even realize.”
Her throat was tight now. She had lost him and she was devastated.
Eleanor’s hand covered hers, the touch cool and grounding.
“You want to know how he feels? Pay attention to what he does when no one’s watching.
To the way he reacts when you’re silent.
To the things he remembers that you never expected him to.
That’s where love lives. In the spaces between the words. ”
Tears stung her eyes as memories rushed back—not of the deliberate moves he had made to secure the deal, but of the unguarded moments when he’d shown her a real part of himself.
The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
The vulnerability he’d tried so hard to hide but couldn’t quite keep from slipping through.
“You and he,” Eleanor continued, her tone quiet but firm, “are both so busy protecting yourselves. Tell him how you feel.”
“But what if I’m too late?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “What if he doesn’t believe me? What if my words aren’t enough?”
“Then show him. Men may not always speak their hearts, but they notice when you do.”
The words settled deep, igniting hope that was fragile but fierce. Because maybe it wasn’t too late. She wiped her eyes and looked back toward the house, not expecting anything—just needing a moment to breathe.
“I should have told him sooner,” she said softly. “About how I felt.”
Eleanor didn’t answer right away. Then, gently, “You’re not the only one who came today.”
Devney stilled. “He’s here?”
“Yes. We had quite an illuminating conversation.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“You needed time to figure out what you really came here for.”
“I—” Her throat tightened, words tangling with emotion. “Why would you let me sit here when he was so close?”
“Because, my dear,” came the reply, “sometimes the hardest truths need space to settle. And sometimes…” Her gaze drifted toward the door where he had disappeared, “they need the right moment to be heard.”
“You talked to him?”
The older woman’s eyes sharpened with understanding. “Yes. About mistakes. About trust. About what truly matters when empires crumble.” She patted Devney’s hand. “He’ll find you when he’s ready,” Eleanor said. “Andrew will keep him occupied for now.”
The realization that they had both traveled to this place, seemingly drawn by the same unseen connection, felt impossible—too coincidental to be mere chance.
“Why would he come here?”
“Perhaps because some things are too important to leave unfinished. You both came seeking answers. Maybe it was for the same question.”
Eleanor rose from her chair. “Now, I believe I’ll go check on the men. Business negotiations can make Andrew irritable if they drag on too long.”
“Wait—” Panic seized her. “What should I say to him? I came all this way to talk to Andrew. I have no idea what to tell Ronan.”
“The truth, my dear. It’s the only thing worth building on.” Then she was gone, leaving Devney alone with the crash of waves and a decision to make.
The truth was simple, but saying it felt terrifying. That she had fallen in love with him during their charade.
But the deepest truth—the one that had pushed her across the sound on a crowded ferry and through the winding streets of the island in an overpriced taxi—was that she couldn’t live with having walked away.
Couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him to deal with the fallout alone.
She created the mess. She had to be the one to try to fix it.
A sound behind her made her turn. The French doors swung open, and there he stood. He looked tired. The lines of his suit rumpled, his hair mussed as if he’d run his hands through it countless times. Dark circles shadowed his eyes—eyes that fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
She stood, ready to face him.
Neither spoke as he crossed the veranda to stand before her, close enough that she could catch the scent of his cologne, see the tension in his jaw, the pulse beating at his throat.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice low and trembling with emotion.
Two words. One heartbeat.
“Yes. I came to fix what I broke. The deal. The company.” She paused. “Your trust.”
“How did you get here?” he asked. The question seemed oddly important to him.
“Ferry. Then taxi.” She gestured vaguely toward the island. “It took a while, but I made it.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You crossed the sound. On the ferry.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” A lie. The trip had been a blur—anxious hours spent staring at the horizon, her mind racing with every outcome, her heart pounding louder with each passing mile.
“Why?” he asked.
The moment stretched between them, thick with possibility and fear. Eleanor’s words echoed in her mind. The truth. It’s the only thing worth building on.
He took a step closer, his voice low and intense. “The deception was mine, Devney. From the beginning. I created this mess because I didn’t trust my own work—or you—to be enough. I put you in an impossible position.”
“And I broke your trust to protect my pride. I was so scared of what people would think, of them cheapening what felt so real.”
“Devney…” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I kept going with the charade because I was falling in love with you.”
His look gave her hope.
“Not just with the idea of you, but with the man who held me like I was precious, who whispered my name in the dark.”
His composure slipped for a second. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring.
“You kept it,” she whispered.
“I thought it was a message. That you were severing the connection between us. Ending the charade.”
“It was.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “I thought that’s what you wanted. What you needed. After I ruined everything.”
“What I need is you. All of you.”
The moment hung suspended between them—a heartbeat of time in which everything might change, or nothing at all.
“I love you.” Her heart laid bare. “Not the CEO. Not the man with the perfect plan. You. The man who brought me sunflowers because I once mentioned my grandmother’s garden. The man who tolerates my ridiculous pen because he knows it matters to me. The man who looks at me like…like I matter.”
“You do.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the power of those two words settled deep inside. “And you didn’t ruin everything.”
“The deal—”
“Is secure.” He held up a hand to stop her. “Andrew and I reached an agreement. Different terms. More favorable to him. But the company will survive.”
Relief crashed through her, so powerful she swayed on her feet. “So, my coming here—”
“—might have started as business,” he said, closing the distance between them, his free hand lifting to cup her cheek, “but somewhere along the way, it became about us.”
His touch sent electricity through her, heat sinking into her bones. “I don’t understand.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I came here this morning to talk to Eleanor,” he admitted, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “To ask her how to get you back.”
The confession stole her breath. “Why would you want that? After what I did?” she asked.
“Because, fake or not, these past weeks with you have been the most real thing in my life.” His eyes held hers, vulnerability replacing the control she had always associated with him.
“The sunflowers weren’t strategy. The moments in my office, the night we spent together—none of that was for Andrew Beauchamp’s business. ”
“Then what was it for?” she asked.
“For this.” He pressed the ring into her palm, closing her fingers around it. “A foundation. One worth building on. If you’ll help me.”
She searched his face, looking for any trace of strategy, but all she found was raw honesty—a man without a plan, offering nothing but himself.
“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his voice low. “At vulnerability. At trust. At forgiveness. But I want to learn. With you.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, unchecked. “What if I mess up again? What if my impulsiveness—”
“Then we’ll fix it. Together.” His hand slid into her hair, drawing her closer. “No more charades. No more strategic advantages. Only us. Figuring it out as we go.”
The ring pressed into her palm, still holding the heat from his pocket. Not a symbol of the ruse any longer, but of possibility. Of a beginning built on truth rather than strategy.
“Together,” she echoed, the word a promise, a hope—a future she hadn’t dared imagine twenty-four hours ago.
And then his lips found hers, and no more words were necessary.