Chapter 44 Wear This And Follow The Roses #2
The ache hits low in my chest. “I remember,” I murmur. But inside, I’m already unraveling—grief, resentment, longing. A cocktail I’ve swallowed too many times.
“I didn’t handle things well after the accident,” he says. There’s a crack in his armor now. I hear it. Feel it. “I didn’t know how to be a father without her. I thought... if I pushed you hard enough, you’d stay strong. But maybe I was wrong.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, the words escaping before I can filter them. “Well, it wasn’t easy for me either.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to turn love into pressure.” His voice is gentler now. “I just wanted you to succeed.”
“I get it,” I say. And I do. But understanding doesn’t erase the bruises. “I meant what I said, though. I’m not changing my mind.”
“Understood,” he replies, and the regret in his voice lands hard. “I just... I hope you have a good day.”
I can hear the sincerity in his voice, but it's too soon for apologies to fix what years of pressure have fractured. I love my daddy—I do—but I’ve spent too much of my life being his version of me. I need to find out who I am… without his expectations trailing behind like a shadow.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I say quietly, cutting the call short before I can get pulled under again.
My thumb hovers over the red button.
“Buh-bye, peanut,” he adds, voice cracking just enough to tug at something deep in my chest. That nickname still hits. Makes me want to hug him and scream at him in the same breath.
“Bye, Daddy,” I whisper, and end the call.
I exhale slow, like I’ve just surfaced from deep water. My hands are shaking. I sit there, still wrapped in the duvet, letting the silence settle around me—equal parts heavy and clean. There’s that ache again. The one that comes from loving someone who loves you, but not always well.
Then, buzz buzz.
My phone lights up, and this time, it’s not weighty—it’s bright. A burst of color and joy and life. The first message: “Happy Birthday, beautiful!!!” from a college friend. Then another: “Can’t wait to celebrate when I’m back in town!”
The group chat with Lori and Wynter is pure chaos: Rihanna doing spirit fingers, a grandma losing her dentures on a birthday cake, and Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” with balloon effects. Classic Lori. I laugh out loud, the tension cracking off me in pieces.
I’m halfway through typing a response when my phone disappears—lifted right out of my hand.
“Hey!” I yelp, looking up.
August’s holding it just out of reach, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. “I was using that!”
He shrugs, unbothered. “You were using me first. Then you got distracted.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he shuts it with a single finger pressed to my lips. The heat that shoots through me is immediate.
“No apologies,” he murmurs. “But I think we need to return to the regularly scheduled birthday programming.”
He leans in, lips brushing mine, and everything else goes hazy. My pulse kicks into overdrive.
“I believe,” I whisper, eyes locked on his, “you were about to give me that birthday dick Wynter keeps bringing up.”
His laugh is low and wicked. “Mmm. Far be it from me to disappoint the birthday girl.”
He sets my phone on the nightstand and pulls me in like he never plans to let go. His mouth finds mine, urgent and unrelenting, and whatever the hell else was on my mind melts away.
There’s only August. His hands. His breath. His love—loud, unspoken, all-consuming.
And me, letting it all in.
Every kiss, every touch, every inch of this ridiculous, perfect, messy birthday.
A few hours later, after the champagne toasts, the sugar crash, and the kind of nap that softens you from the inside out, I’m standing in front of a mirror in a dress that doesn't feel real—wondering how the hell I became someone worth all this.
The dress is plum velvet—off-the-shoulder, sweetheart neckline, fitted through the waist and hips with a slit that whispers instead of screams. The gloves hit just past my elbow. Diamond earrings catch the light against my skin, cool and deliberate, like they were made for this moment. For me.
August is somewhere behind around here, quiet in that calculating way he gets when he’s plotting something. And whatever this is? This is more than dinner.
The instructions where simple: Wear this and follow the roses.
And I have no clue why I am so nervous. I fidget at the my gloves as I adjust them one last time, and give myself a once over before turning and leaving the bedroom of the suite.
The suite is hushed as I pass through it, following the white rose petals guiding my direction, the lights dimmed to a golden glow.
At the far end, French doors open onto what I thought was just a terrace—until the glass doors part with a soft hiss, and the chill from the rooftop wraps around me like a whispered promise.
I step out slowly, heels clicking against smooth stone warmed from beneath, and everything else disappears.
The rooftop has been transformed into a winter wonderland—completely encased in glass, warm and glowing from within.
Clear panels arc overhead, curving into a glittering dome dusted with fresh snowfall.
Outside, the Manhattan skyline twinkles like a living postcard—Times Square to the left, the Empire State glowing in the distance.
Inside, fairy lights drip from the beams like champagne bubbles, catching on crystal stemware and flickering candles arranged in perfect, intentional chaos.
The air smells like truffle, rosemary, and something sweet I can’t name.
There’s no one else here.
Just one table—draped in ivory linen, set for two—with a centerpiece of white roses and calla lilies nestled in frosted glass. A violinist plays near the edge, soft and reverent, the slow swing of “At Last” curling around the space like steam.
And then I see him.
August stands near the edge of the dome, hands tucked into his pockets, black tux fitted like a secret.
His bowtie’s undone, his eyes locked on me like I’m a prayer answered.
The snow outside catches in his lashes through the glass, but it’s the way he looks at me—slow, reverent, hungry—that sends a chill straight down my spine.
“Damn,” he says softly, voice low and full of heat. “Thank you, God.” He puts his hands together in prayer and looks up to the sky, before looking back at me.
I swallow a smile, smoothing my gloves as I walk toward him, dress hugging every curve like it was stitched to remember me. The velvet catches the light, deep plum melting into shadows. The slit at my thigh sways with each step, deliberate and teasing. “You said wear me. I followed instructions.”
“Baby,” he murmurs, taking my hand, “you redefined them.”
He helps me into my seat like we’re in a movie—one of those old black-and-white joints where women wore gloves and men knew how to worship them without touching too much. There’s a pause in the air. Like the night’s holding its breath.
He takes a step forward, then another, until we’re close enough to share breath.
“You said birthdays were hard,” he murmurs, voice thick with something deeper than charm. “So I wanted to make this one unforgettable.”
I blink fast. My throat’s too tight to speak. I’m suddenly aware of everything—how cold my fingers feel despite the gloves, how warm his gaze is, how fucking hard it is to be seen like this. Loved like this.
He reaches into his pocket.
A small box.
Simple. Black. Velvet.
“I wasn’t gonna make a big thing out of it,” he says, quieter now. “But I underestimated how good you were going to look in that dress... and now everything feels like a big thing.”
He opens the box.
Inside, resting on white satin, is a delicate white gold necklace—an “H” in tiny, perfect diamonds. No flash. Just precision. Thought. Love.
“For you,” he says. “So you never forget who the day belongs to.”
My breath catches. I reach for it, but he stops me—just for a second—and fastens it himself. The cold metal settles against my collarbone. His fingers linger a beat too long.
“Happy Birthday, Mi Vida.”
And for the first time in years —without trying, without even knowing how—he gives me the thing I’ve never had on my birthday.
Peace.