Chapter 17
Seventeen
I step onto the dock, the salty sea air curling around me, brushing cool against my cheeks. The water, the sway, the soft creak of wood beneath my feet—it all feels too familiar.
It was only three days ago. Three days.
Alder and I were tangled in each other’s arms, breathless, making promises, the night air brushing our skin as we fell asleep on a dock so much like this one.
That dock was supposed to be a pause, a weekend escape.
Instead, it became a portal. A threshold.
The end of one life and the beginning of something I still can’t name.
So much has happened since then. Too much.
It feels like I’ve lived an entire lifetime in the span of a few sunrises. Like I’ve shed one version of myself and stepped into another—raw, aching, unsure of the terrain but still somehow stronger than before.
And the Gemma who stood on that dock with Alder just a few nights ago?
She would’ve said yes to anything he asked.
Let him possess her, parade her around like an accessory to his perfect all-American image.
All smiles and angles and glossy PR-approved photos.
She would’ve swallowed her doubts with champagne and let the press call it love.
And I really thought I was okay with that.
But I’m not. Not anymore.
I’d rather move back in with my parents, red-faced and broke, than sell my soul for a lifetime of money and sex and nothing more. I’d rather start from nothing—be humiliated, be lost—than lose myself.
Because now I’ve seen something else. I’ve seen him. Not just the curated version, the one built for boardrooms and magazine covers, but the one who has depth and is all kindness and fun and who looked at me like I mattered.
I want that man.
And I want him to see me—all of me. Not just the polished, poised version he used to show off at fundraisers.
Not the woman who stayed quiet, smoothed the edges, and did whatever it took to stay in his orbit.
I want him to see the woman I’m becoming—the one who’s scared and brave, who stumbles and still keeps going.
The one who deserves more than admiration or control.
Who wants partnership. Who wants to be chosen not because she’s easy to parade around, but because she’s real and messy and still worthy of being loved.
Who saw magick with her own eyes.
Who watched someone die and still has no idea what to do with that knowledge.
I hope he’s ready to talk. Really talk. And I hope he’s ready to listen—the way he did yesterday morning in the gardens, when for a moment, it felt like we’d finally stopped pretending.
Because I’m not just here to say yes. I’m here to be heard.
And if he can’t give me that…I’m walking away.
A small, beautiful sailboat moored in a slip catches my eye as I pass it on my way to the end of the dock. It rocks gently on the water. The hull gleams in the midmorning sun, the sleek, polished wood curving elegantly. The navy sail is neatly furled, secured with knotted ropes worn soft with use.
Sunbeams scatter across the great moat that surrounds the castle isle, shattering into flashes of gold and silver.
But beyond it—past the glimmering waters and the gently bobbing sailboat—shadows stretch long and dark through the towering pines.
The bridge that connects this island to the next is crumbling, ivy strangling the stone, its arch broken and sagging like a spine that can’t hold the weight anymore. One good storm, and it’ll collapse.
Maybe I will too.
The breeze picks up, sharp and cool as it rolls off the water. It lifts the ribbon from my hair, and I let it go. Let it flutter away like the white flag I’m no longer willing to raise.
I brace my hands on the dock railing, fingers curling around the weathered wood. I breathe in the scent of salt and pine, let it sting my lungs, let it keep me from unraveling.
Maybe he won’t come.
Maybe he’ll make it heartbreakingly easy to walk away.
The seconds stretch. A gull cries somewhere overhead, its call sharp and lonely.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the wood creaking beneath me, and pretend I don’t keep glancing over my shoulder to scan the path behind me every few heartbeats.
The wind picks up again, tugging at my sleeves, like even it’s trying to pull me back.
Behind me, boots thud softly against the dock’s planks. Then his voice—familiar enough to hurt.
“I’m glad you came.”
There’s warmth in his tone, teasing and light, as if this is just another morning, just another conversation. Like we haven’t been dancing around each other in this endless push and pull that’s left me aching and raw.
I don’t turn around.
My eyes stay locked on the water, on the fractured reflection of the castle shimmering in its depths. The wind slips around me, and the distant crash of the sea feels louder than it should—like the ocean’s trying to drown out everything I don’t want to say but have to.
My fists clench at my sides. Every emotion I’ve swallowed down for the past decade is stacked, one on top of the other, until they’re too heavy to carry.
“What was the point?” My voice comes out quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “Sleeping in the library. Not coming back to the room last night. What message were you trying to send, exactly?”
I turn to face him, bracing for his smirk, for the deflection, for another round of whatever passive-aggressive game he thinks we’re still playing.
But he’s just…standing there.
A picnic basket hangs from one hand, a rolled blanket tucked under his arm.
The breeze ruffles his golden hair, and his eyes—his blue, wide, confusingly soft eyes—look almost startled.
Like I’ve caught him off guard. Like he doesn’t know how to play this particular game because he never agreed to it.
“I—” He blinks, and his smile tilts, uncertain. “That wasn’t meant to be a message. I didn’t want to wake you.”
His voice is too gentle. His words too careful. There’s no sharpness, no familiar edge of condescension or control.
I falter. Just for a second. Because this isn’t how Alder fights. He throws jabs, backhanded comments, guilt-laced apologies meant to keep me tethered. But this version—the one standing here holding a picnic and a blanket—he’s not playing defense. He’s not playing at all.
“I just thought…maybe we could spend the day together.” He lifts the basket slightly in an awkward peace offering.
And suddenly I don’t know what to do with all the fire I brought with me. I crossed this dock ready to rage. Ready to demand apologies, answers, accountability. But instead of a storm, I’ve run headfirst into sunlight.
I cross my arms. “Why, Alder? So you can play the part of the charming, brooding lord with a picture- perfect brunch spread and sweeping gestures and hope I forget everything that’s happened?”
My voice rises, sharp and cracking around the edges. “What, were you planning to distract me with champagne and ocean views and just…reset us? Pretend last night didn’t happen? Pretend the last ten years didn’t happen?”
He opens his mouth, but I steamroll over him.
“I can’t do that anymore. I won’t go on like nothing’s changed.”
“Gemma—” His voice is soft, caught between caution and concern.
“No,” I snap, shaking my head. “Don’t Gemma me. Last night I was trying to tell you something real. And you—” My voice cracks, and I hate it, but I keep going. “You brushed it off like I was being dramatic. Like I was imagining things.”
His brows knit together, but I’m already on a roll, fury and heartbreak burning through me.
“I gave you honesty. You gave me avoidance and hands that wouldn’t stop touching me even when I was begging you to listen.”
“I didn’t mean—” he starts.
“You never mean to!” I explode, throwing my arms up. “That’s the problem, Alder. You never mean to hurt me. You just do. You say something shitty, or you don’t say anything at all, and then I’m left making excuses to convince myself that I’m not na?ve or dense for still hanging around.”
He flinches at that, and I almost feel bad—but not enough to stop.
“You always do this,” I say, voice lower now, biting. “You show up with your charming smile and your credit card, and you expect that to be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
“Well, too bad,” I snap.
I step closer, my heart thudding, every nerve in my body electric with hurt and want and a decade of unspoken things.
“I need more than this. More than mood swings and breadcrumbs and sweet moments that vanish the second it’s inconvenient for you to care.”
His jaw tightens. “I do care.”
“Then why didn’t you come back to the room last night?” I fire back. And I know I’m talking in circles, but there’s something he’s not saying, and I want the truth. “Why did you leave me alone after what I told you?”
He hesitates. Just long enough to say everything without saying a word.
“I needed you.” The wind off the water whips my hair into my face, and I shove it back with shaking fingers. “For more than your money or security, I actually needed you—the man who looked at me like I was more than something he could just…win.”
His expression shifts and the color drains from his cheeks. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, but something in him staggers. Like a blow landed. Like he didn’t expect it to hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
No excuse. No sidestep. A real, honest apology.
It knocks the breath out of me.
I blink, stunned, because this isn’t the man who once turned a fundraiser into a PR stunt and called it romance. This isn’t the man who missed birthdays and canceled dates and always made me feel like I was the one asking for too much.
“Oh,” I breathe. It’s all I can manage. Just that one tiny word, because my chest is too full, and my throat is too tight, and I don’t trust myself not to cry.
“I should never have left you,” he says. His voice is still low, but steadier now. “I should have stayed. I should have listened.”
He takes a step toward me, slow and careful, like he knows just how close he came to breaking whatever’s left between us.
“I’m still the same man I was gathering eggs with you yesterday morning,” he adds, eyes locked on mine. “Let me prove it.”
I look down at the basket in his hand, at the blanket tucked under his arm, then up at him again, wary. “This your idea of proving it?”
He lets out a quiet breath. “It’s a start. Just…come with me. Please.”
“I don’t need a romantic field trip,” I say, but the bite in my voice is already fading. My edges are duller now, the anger bleeding out of me, leaving behind nothing but tired muscles and too many feelings.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as breakfast.”
I stare at him. At the wind-tousled hair. At the soft lines around his eyes, at the quiet way he’s standing there. Not forcing, not charming, not telling me I’m spiraling. Just waiting.
“Where?” I ask, arms still stubbornly crossed.
He gestures toward the sleek little sailboat bobbing gently next to the dock. “There. Other side of the island. Just a little while.”
“I’m not done yelling at you.”
That half-smile tugs at his lips again. “I’d be disappointed if you were.”
I stare at him for a long beat. My pulse thuds hard in my throat, tangled with too many feelings—anger, confusion, something terrifyingly close to hope. I don’t want to give in. I don’t want to make this easy. But I also don’t want to stay stuck in the version of us that’s always almost worked.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go. But you’re on extremely thin ice.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I step past him, jaw set, my flats thudding softly against the dock as I head for the boat. My heart kicks with every step, still thrumming with leftover frustration and a feeling I don’t want to name.
He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t guide me with a hand on the small of my back like he always used to. He lets me move ahead. Lets me make the first move. He gives me space.
And maybe that, more than the apology, more than the picnic, is what begins to thaw the part of me that still has hope.
He follows behind, and for the first time, it feels like we’re not falling back into old patterns. It feels like we’re choosing something new.