Chapter 42 Suite Life Of A Spoiled Brat #2
Kennedy stops short just outside the elevator doors, slipping a sleek black envelope into August’s hand with deliberate flair.
“Enjoy the suite,” she says, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial as her gaze flicks to me.
Then she leans in close, her perfume—a mix of citrus and something smoky—curling around me like a secret.
“And Harlee?” Her voice dips lower still, softer now but no less commanding. “Let yourself have this.”
Her words land heavy and light all at once, like raindrops on thirsty soil. Before I can respond—before I can even process how much those five little words mean—she winks and strides away, her heels clicking against the marble like punctuation marks on an unspoken promise.
The elevator ride up feels slower than it should, each floor marked by a soft chime that seems to echo forever in the quiet space. August stands beside me, his thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles in a rhythm so soothing it nearly lulls me into forgetting where we’re headed. Nearly.
When the suite door swings open with an audible click, my breath catches in my throat and then leaves my body entirely in one stunned rush.
It isn’t just one thing—it’s everything all at once.
The view hits first: Times Square sprawled out beneath us like some neon-drenched fever dream, alive and pulsing with energy even from this height.
Then there’s the furniture—sleek and modern but impossibly inviting—as though comfort was designed into every curve and corner.
But none of that holds my attention for long because there, floating near the ceiling like weightless whispers of joy, are dozens of white balloons.
They bob gently above us as if suspended by pure magic rather than helium—their soft glow catching bits of light from the city below—and front and center among them are silver letters strung together to spell out what feels both impossibly bold and profoundly simple:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
My hands fly to my face before I can stop them, palms pressing against cheeks that are suddenly damp with tears I hadn’t realized were falling until now. A laugh bubbles up past the lump in my throat—raw and unfiltered—and breaks free just as another wave of emotion crashes over me.
I cry again.
And then laugh again.
And somehow manage to do both at once because this… this is not what I’m used to. This is not casual or convenient or obligatory. This is intention made tangible—love crafted into details so specific they feel like they were pulled directly from my soul without me ever needing to speak them aloud.
I feel spoiled—not in some bratty way but in a way that makes my chest ache with gratitude so fierce it almost hurts. Spoiled in the way someone feels when they’ve been seen completely for who they are—and loved for it anyway.
August steps in behind me quietly but with purpose, his arms wrapping around my waist from behind as his chin finds its place on my shoulder like it was made to rest there. His warmth seeps into me instantly, anchoring me even as my emotions threaten to sweep me away entirely.
“I know you hate your birthday,” he says, his voice low and steady near my ear—a sound that feels more like home than any place ever has. “But I wanted you to feel celebrated.”
I turn in his arms slowly—partly because I’m overwhelmed beyond words and partly because I want to savor every second of this moment before it slips away into memory.
My hands find their way up to his face almost instinctively—fingers brushing lightly over cheekbones and stubble as if trying to map him out anew despite knowing every inch by heart already.
“You did all this…” My voice cracks slightly under the weight of everything I’m feeling—everything I can’t quite say yet—but I push through anyway because he deserves to hear it all, “…for me?”
He cups my face with such tenderness it nearly undoes me entirely—his thumbs brushing away stray tears as easily as if they were nothing more than dust motes caught in sunlight. “Always,” he says simply, but there’s nothing simple about how he says it or how it feels when he does.
And just like that — like flipping some long-overdue switch deep in my soul — I release it all. Every doubt I ever entertained. Every fear I dressed up as logic. Every lie I told myself about being too much or not enough to be loved this completely, this freely, this loudly.
I stop shrinking.
I stop apologizing for taking up space in a room that was built for me.
I let myself be held — tears and all, crown and all — in this moment that exists for no other reason than to remind me that I. Am. That. Girl.
Because I always was.
Not because of the setting. Not because of what glitters around me — though baby, it should glitter. Everything around me should.
But because someone saw all of me — the light I spent years dimming to make other people comfortable — and chose it. Chose me. Loudly. Deliberately. Without apology.
And for once, I don't talk them out of it.
For once, I don't second-guess the blessing. I don't shrink back from the fullness of being wanted. I don't make myself small enough to fit inside someone else's comfort zone.
I receive it.
All of it.
I lean into him fully — soft and sovereign, heart wide open, mind finally, finally quiet — and I let every beautiful, deliberate piece of this magic land exactly where it was always meant to.
On me.
For once… I don't just stay.
I arrive.