Chapter 25
Wyatt
I’m standing in the Huntington Arts Center, adjusting my tie for the third time.
Tonight is my first showing as the featured artist and, despite the calm I’m trying to project, my palms are sweating.
Three weeks ago, I watched Snow charm a room full of business owners at that networking event.
Tonight, it’s my turn to be vulnerable in front of a crowd.
The gallery is packed, buzzing with the kind of refined energy that comes with an opening reception for a new photography exhibition. As I look around at my work hanging on these walls — a dozen pieces that represent who I really am — the nerves settle. This is where I belong. This is who I am.
“Wyatt, darling!” Delilah Drake materializes beside me in a cloud of expensive perfume and dramatic black silk.
The romance author who orchestrated my nightmare in St. Lucia looks every inch the successful novelist, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her smile warm and perfectly calculated.
She’s here with her husband, a local art collector I recognize from other exhibitions.
“What a wonderful surprise! I heard through the grapevine that you’re exploring photography.
How marvelous to see you pursuing creative hobbies! ”
The way she says “hobbies” — with such enthusiastic condescension — makes my jaw tighten.
“That’s right,” I say evenly. “A dozen of my pieces are featured in tonight’s exhibition.”
“How delightful!” Her smile doesn’t waver.
“It’s so important to have interests outside of work, don’t you think?
Keeps the mind fresh for the real work.” She leans in conspiratorially.
“Speaking of which, I have the most exciting opportunity for you. My next series — six books — and I want you and Jade on every cover.”
Before I can respond, I feel a familiar warm presence at my side. Snow appears, looking stunning in a deep green dress. She links her arm through mine with a naturalness that makes my chest tight with affection.
Delilah’s gaze shifts to Snow, and I see the moment of recognition.
Her expression shifts to something apologetic, though her eyes remain calculating.
“Ms. Holloway! My dear, I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.
” She places a hand on her chest in a gesture of theatrical sincerity.
“I am so sorry about all that drama in St. Lucia. I hope you understand — it wasn’t personal, just business.
Theatrics, you know. Good for book sales and all that.
I certainly didn’t mean to upset anyone. ”
Snow’s smile is perfectly polite and perfectly cold. “How considerate of you to clarify.”
The subtle dismissal makes me bite back a smile.
“Well,” Delilah says brightly, turning back to me as if the apology settled everything.
“As I was saying, Wyatt — this photography hobby is lovely, truly, but I do hope you’re keeping your priorities straight.
Six books, darling. The payday would be substantial enough that you could retire afterward if you wanted.
Do whatever artistic pursuits your heart desires.
” She glances at the photographs on the wall with benevolent indulgence, like a parent admiring a child’s finger painting.
“You’d never have to worry about money again. ”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say carefully, “I’ll discuss it with Snow and get back to you.”
She laughs, a tinkling sound like breaking crystal.
“Oh, Wyatt. I understand the appeal of the artistic temperament, I really do. But there’s really nothing to discuss.
Surely you can see the practical benefits of securing your financial future?
Then you can play with cameras all you want.
” She glances at Snow with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m sure your girlfriend would appreciate the security, wouldn’t you, dear?
A substantial modeling income versus… well, we all know how challenging it is to make a living in the arts. ”
Snow stiffens beside me, and I feel something inside me crystallize into perfect clarity about who I am and what matters to me.
“Excuse me,” I say, gently disentangling myself from Snow’s arm. “I think there’s something I need to say.”
I walk to the front of the gallery, where a small platform has been set up for the evening’s speakers. The gallery owner, Pattie Hendricks, sees me approaching and raises her eyebrows questioningly. I nod toward the microphone, and she understands immediately.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Pattie announces, tapping her wine glass with what looks like a silver spoon. “Our featured artist, Wyatt Ford, has something he’d like to share with us this evening.”
The conversation dies down as all eyes turn to me. I find Snow in the crowd — she looks surprised and slightly worried — and draw strength from her presence.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here tonight, and thank you, Pattie, for including my work in this beautiful exhibition.” I pause, looking around the room at the faces of artists, collectors, and art lovers.
“Many of you know me from my work as a romance novel cover model. It’s been a successful career, and I’m grateful for the opportunities it’s given me. ”
I see Delilah in the crowd, her expression predatory.
“But tonight, I want to officially announce that I’m retiring from modeling to focus full-time on photography.” A murmur runs through the crowd. “This decision isn’t about money or career advancement. It’s simply about being me. The real Wyatt Ford.”
I find Snow’s eyes again, and she’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“For years, I’ve made a living pretending to be characters I’m not, selling fantasies.
And while there’s nothing wrong with fantasy, I want to be behind the camera instead, capturing the quiet moments, the imperfect ones, the ones that don’t make it onto book or magazine covers but matter more than anything to me. ”
The room is completely silent now. Even the wait staff has stopped moving.
“Photography has taught me to see the difference between what’s performed and what’s authentic. Between what looks good and what is good.” I take a deep breath, my heart pounding. “And the woman who taught me that difference is here tonight.”
I don’t look at Snow — I can’t, or I’ll lose my courage — but I feel her presence like gravity.
“Snow Holloway showed me what real love looks like. Not the kind that exists for cameras or magazine covers, but the kind that shows up every day, that supports your dreams even when they’re inconvenient, that chooses you repeatedly, consistently, genuinely.
She taught me that the most beautiful stories are the real ones. ”
I pause, my voice softening as I look directly at Snow. “Snow, I love you so damn much.”
A collective sigh ripples through the audience, followed by scattered “awws” and appreciative murmurs. Someone in the back even whistle-cheers. But I barely hear them.
“So I’m choosing reality over fantasy. I’m choosing truth over performance. I’m choosing love over money.” I smile, feeling lighter than I have in years. “And I’m choosing photography over modeling.”
The applause that erupts is thunderous, but all I can focus on is Snow, who has tears streaming down her face and a smile that could power the entire building.
As the crowd begins to disperse, chattering excitedly about my announcement, I make my way back to Snow. She doesn’t say anything, just steps into my arms and buries her face against my chest.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers against my shirt.
“Yes, I did. It was time.”
“But the money—”
“Is just money. This—” I gesture around the gallery, then tip her chin up to meet my eyes, “—this is my life. You are my life.”
“Wyatt.” Her voice breaks on my name.
“I love you, Snow, so damn much. And I wanted everyone in this room to know that you’re the reason I found the courage to become who I really am.”
She stands on her toes and kisses me, right there in front of everyone, and I don’t care who’s watching because this is real, this is ours, this is our truth.
When we break apart, I see Delilah near the exit, her expression sour. She catches my eye and shakes her head as if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Maybe I have, from a financial standpoint. I’ve just publicly burned bridges with an industry that’s been good to me, turned down future earnings, and chosen uncertainty over security.
But as Snow slides her hand into mine and we walk through the gallery together, stopping to talk with other artists and admire their work, I know I’ve made the right choice.
This is who I am. This is the life I want. And the woman beside me — brilliant, strong, beautiful, real — is worth more than all the modeling contracts in the world.
Later, as we’re driving home, Snow is quieter than usual.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“I’m thinking,” she says slowly, “that what you did tonight was either the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen, or the most reckless.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She laughs, a sound of pure joy that fills the truck. “Yes, I think it can be both. And I think…” She pauses, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I think after tonight, I finally believe it. That this is real. That you’re real. That you meant every word you’ve said to me.”
“I did. I do. Always.”
“I know.” She takes a shaky breath. “And I love you too. I’ve said it before, but tonight… tonight I think I finally believe it myself when I say it.”
I reach over and take her hand, lacing our fingers together, my heart so full it might burst. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Wyatt Ford.” Her voice is stronger now, more certain. “I love who you are, who you’re becoming, who you’ve always been.”
It’s not just the words. It’s the way she says them — no hesitation, no walls, no fear. It’s her finally letting me all the way in.
Because Snow Holloway isn’t just worth the wait.
She’s worth everything.