24. Sloane #2
He lowers himself to one knee as my entire body forgets how to function.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Marcus looks up at me, and there is no boardroom in him now. No public narrative. No careful strategy positioned between the question and the fear underneath it. Just him. The man I chose.
“Sloane Parker,” he says, voice quiet and rough and so earnest it almost breaks me, “will you marry me because you want to? Not because the story needs it. Not because the public expects it. Not because it solves anything. But because the real thing between us is worth choosing, even when it makes everything else more complicated.”
I cover my mouth with one hand and stare at him. For a second, I can't answer. The words are there. So is the feeling behind them. But neither one seems capable of making it past the knot tightening in my throat.
Not because I'm unsure, but because I've spent so long expecting people to want something from me that I don't quite know what to do with someone who simply wants me.
Marcus waits without trying to interrupt the silence or rescue himself from the uncertainty inside it, and somehow that matters almost as much as the question itself.
My hand falls slowly from my mouth.
“Yes,” I say.
His eyes close briefly, just long enough for me to see the impact of the word. When he looks at me again, the emotion in his expression is so raw and unguarded it nearly undoes me.
“But,” I add.
His expression sharpens immediately. “But?”
“Yes, but this is not becoming a press event.”
“No.”
“And no sudden ring reveal in front of cameras.”
“No.”
“And if anyone leaks this before I decide what I want shared publicly, I will personally set fire to every communications channel in this building.”
“Understood.”
“And I am not wearing a ring picked out by a jeweler who was briefed on optics.”
His mouth curves then, slow and real. “What kind of ring do you want?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then we’ll find out.”
“Together.”
“Yes,” he says. “Together.”
It's the word together that finally undoes me. Not the idea of marriage or forever, but the simple certainty behind it. Together. Through the chaos, the mistakes, the arguments, and everything still waiting for us on the other side of this room.
I step toward him as he rises, and this time neither of us is careful about who reaches first. We reach at the same time, his hands coming to my waist as mine close around the front of his shirt, and when he kisses me, it feels nothing like performance.
This kiss is unpolished and a little desperate.
A little laughing because I bump into the edge of the conference table and curse under my breath, and Marcus pulls back just enough to ask if I’m hurt with such genuine concern that I almost start crying again.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You hit the table.”
“The table is ugly. It deserved it.”
He laughs then, and I kiss him again because I can. Because he asked and I answered, and for the first time in a very long time, neither of us is letting anyone else decide what this means.
When the door opens without warning, Declan takes one step inside, sees Marcus’s hands on my waist and mine gripping his shirt, and stops dead.
“Oh,” he says.
Marcus’s head turns slowly.
“Out.”
Declan’s eyebrows rise. “So yes, then?”
“Out,” Marcus repeats.
I laugh against Marcus’s chest despite myself.
Declan holds up both hands and backs toward the hallway. “For the record, I support whatever this is, mostly because it means Marcus might finally become tolerable.”
“Declan,” Graham’s voice says from somewhere beyond the doorway.
“What? I’m leaving.”
The door closes again, and for a second Marcus and I simply stare at each other before laughter spills out of me, uncontrolled and completely inappropriate for a legal conference room moments after a marriage proposal.
Marcus watches me for half a second before his own smile finally breaks through, real and unguarded enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
And there he is. Not the man the cameras built or the executive the board fears. Not the fake fiancé the public tried to turn into something real before we were ready for it.
Just Marcus. Standing in front of me with his heart in his hands and absolutely no idea how impossible it is for me to imagine walking away. I pull him closer, resting my forehead against his.
“I meant yes,” I whisper.
His hands tighten gently at my waist. “I know.”
“And I meant on my terms.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.”
His thumb moves slowly against my side. “Sloane.”
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
My chest aches so sharply it almost hurts.
“I love you too.”
The words come easier than I expected. Maybe because they're not new, only spoken.
Marcus kisses me again, softer this time, and somehow the terrible conference room becomes exactly the right place for this moment. Nothing about it belongs to the public version of us.
There are no cameras. No donors. No headlines. No carefully chosen backdrop designed to tell a story.
Just legal folders, bad lighting, half-empty bottles of sparkling water, and the man I love asking me to choose him where no one else can turn it into something else.
For the first time, I understand the difference. The fake engagement belonged to everyone.
This yes belongs to us.