Chapter Thirty-Two #2
He looked painfully good. Objectively. Inconveniently.
I kept trying to claw my way back to the version of myself who hadn’t yet noticed how attractive he was, who could look at him without my body registering him faster than my pride could intervene.
But it was too late. My brain continued to reach for him automatically, greedy and traitorous, cataloging, admiring—like he was mine to look at, like he hadn’t already burrowed into me, into my bones and my veins, into whatever fundamental material I was made of.
The very thing that held him together had threaded itself through me, and no line I drew—regardless of how hard or necessary—could scrape him back out.
A groan caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, forcing composure, and opened the door wider. “Ready.”
I heard his footsteps before I felt his hand land at my waist. I tried not to squirm, but when his fingers brushed against my bare back, a shiver climbed my spine.
He hesitated immediately. “Sorry,” he murmured, the word grazing the air between us.
My heart was thudding now, a pound I couldn’t hide.
He found the zipper slowly, drawing it upward with gentle precision. The sound was almost too loud in the silence. When it reached the top, his hand stayed—not touching, not exactly, but near enough that his hot breath pulled goose bumps up the base of my neck.
“You’re good,” he whispered.
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing there, still, stunned, and completely undone.
I was a panting mess of want and confusion, every nerve in my body alive from one second of him barely touching me.
It was ridiculous, really—how one person could turn a brush of skin into something that felt like being rewired from the inside out.
I grabbed my clutch, took one last steadying breath, and stepped out.
He looked up from his phone as I entered the living room, and for a beat, his expression faltered—eyes widening, lips parting slightly, that unreadable storm flickering behind his calm.
It was gone almost instantly, replaced by his usual nonchalance, but I’d seen it.
The look that said I wasn’t invisible. The look that said I affected him, too.
His stare swept down once, landing on my feet. “Flats?”
“They’re practical.”
He turned and disappeared down the hallway. When he came back, he was holding the heels I’d left on my bed—the ones I’d wanted to wear.
“Sit,” he said.
I obeyed, my chest tightening as he knelt in front of me. He skimmed my ankle to unbuckle a flat, and a wave of unexpected heat rippled through me.
It wasn’t the first time he’d taken my shoes off.
Usually, it was after long hospital shifts when I came home half-asleep, too tired to notice.
Back then, I was always wearing socks, barely conscious, the gesture more domestic than intimate.
But now—barefoot and awake—it felt different.
He lingered longer than was necessary, tracing warmth across skin that had never been noticed.
Each stroke was intentional, as if he were savoring the moment, making me acutely aware of his proximity and the pressure of his hands.
He set the heels at my feet and guided them on, his fingers gliding over the arch of my foot, the sensitive tips of my toes. The sensation of his touch was intoxicating, a blend of tenderness and desire that left me yearning for more.
His gaze caught mine after he was done. “Don’t ever feel like you have to make yourself smaller for me,” he said. “Or for anyone. Your height isn’t an inconvenience, Lillian—it’s breathtaking.”
His words hung in the air, charged with an unspoken promise, encouraging me to see myself through his eyes.
I’d hit six feet by the eighth grade and spent years collecting the ohmygosh you’re so tall commentary like parking tickets ever since.
The boys turned it into a hobby with their mean jokes, demeaning nicknames, that pinched expression they got when they realized I could see the top of their heads.
I wanted to hunch, to fold myself up, to pretend I didn’t notice the stares.
I’d been hyperaware of my body since I was a kid, hyperaware that blending in was a club I was never getting invited to.
So instead, I adapted. Not by shrinking. By doing the opposite.
I learned the easiest way through was to act like I didn’t mind, to lean into the spectacle, to make my voice a few notches louder, my opinions a little less sugar-coated because if they were going to talk about me anyway, I might as well choose the story.
And now here he was, looking at me like the thing I’d spent years turning into armor was, somehow, beautiful.
It didn’t sound like flattery. It sounded frighteningly sincere, and in that moment, I felt a connection that was both personal and empowering, a dance of passion and respect that had me suddenly, stupidly, breathless.
He stalled for a second, his thumb sweeping over my ankle one last time before he pulled away. From the inside pocket of his tux jacket, he drew out a small box—velvet, worn at the edges.
“I, um—” He cleared his throat. “I got this for you a while ago. Before...” His voice trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Before the fight. Before the silence.
He glanced at me, then looked down shyly. “I wanted to give it to you for the gala. And...I still do.”
He flipped open the box. Nestled inside, catching the dim glow from the lamp, was a delicate gold chain lined with crystal droplets, each one refracting light like captured rain.
A quiet gasp escaped me. He took the bracelet out and reached for my hand, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. The clasp clicked into place, but his hand didn’t fall away.
“I know your mom always made you feel like you weren’t enough,” he said softly.
“Like your existence was something she had to endure rather than love. And I can’t shake the sense that you’ve been carrying that around your whole life—into every achievement, every conversation, every room you step into.
” His thumb grazed my pulse. “But your worth was never something she got to define. Her silence doesn’t make your success any smaller.
Her absence doesn’t dull your light. Her lack of pride doesn’t make you any less extraordinary.
” He looked up at me, his voice threaded with awe.
“You are brilliant, Lillian. You are everything they refused to see, and you did it all without them.” He hesitated, eyes searching mine.
“And even if you don’t win, it doesn’t take any of that away.
It doesn’t change the fact that you have earned every bit of it.
You’ve already built something remarkable—you just can’t see it from where you’re standing. ”
He gave my hand a single squeeze before letting go. The bracelet caught the light again, scattering it across the room, across him. I should’ve been touched, moved, maybe even teary-eyed. Instead, I was semi-furious that my feelings hadn’t gotten the memo to stay dead, and semi-furious at him.
Because of course he had no problem spending thousands of dollars on me, clasping gold around my wrist, calling me brilliant and extraordinary and breathtaking, like it cost him nothing. But ask him to admit he had feelings for me? Suddenly, it was national security.
He could build me entire constellations out of compliments, but God forbid he say he liked me.
No, that would be too human, too vulnerable, too real.
Easier to hide behind gestures and metaphors and that maddeningly calm voice of his, the one that made every word sound like it had already been thought through ten times before reaching me.
And maybe that was the worst part—how much it worked.
How, even through my irritation, I kept looking at the bracelet sparkling against my skin and thinking, he chose this.
For me. I couldn’t stop picturing him at the jewelry counter, completely out of place, probably looking like he’d been dared to be there, with the sales associate hovering over his shoulder, ready to pounce for commission.
She definitely asked who it was for, and he probably mumbled, “Uh...my wife,” all awkward and gruff.
And then she’d swoon—because of course, not only was her customer rich and devastatingly beautiful, but also apparently thoughtful enough to buy his “uh, wife” jewelry.
I could practically hear her asking questions, all eager smiles and thinly veiled envy: What’s she like?
What kind of style does she have? And him—annoyingly unbothered, answering every question right.
Because of course he knew. Of course he knew me that well.
He knew how I accessorized, which shoes I reached for when I needed to feel brave, how to make my heart melt—and exactly how to make it break.
I exhaled, staring at the tiny flecks of light catching on the gold. Romantic gestures were supposed to make a girl go weak in the knees, not spiral into an emotional identity crisis.
He stood, adjusting his cufflinks with an easy, practiced motion, and walked toward the door. Not another word passed between us as we left the apartment, not when we reached the car, not even as he started the engine.
I turned toward the window, pretending to be fascinated by the passing city, but every molecule of air in the small space buzzed like static.
My heart hadn’t stopped racing since he’d touched me, and now, with him inches away and his delicious scent threading through the cold night, I could barely breathe.
I rolled the window down a crack, desperate to smell anything but him.
He shot me a quick look. “Shut the window. It’s freezing.”
In perfect defiance, I pressed the button again, and the glass slid all the way down.
He suddenly swerved, the tires hissing against the pavement as the car jerked toward the shoulder. My body lurched forward, my hand flying out to steady myself.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped, pulse thrumming for a whole new reason.
He threw the car into park and turned to face me. “Can we just...” His voice wavered slightly before he found it again. “Can we press pause for one night?”
I stared at him. “What?”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the steering wheel, eyes flicking between mine like he was searching for mercy.
“I know you hate me, Lillian. God knows I deserve it.” His tone softened, something raw bleeding through the seams of his restraint.
“But you worked hard on this gala. You should enjoy it. So tonight, you can forget how much you hate me. Have fun, smile, let people see you’re happy.
” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll play the part of the perfect husband.
You can pretend, too. And then, at midnight sharp, you can go back to treating me exactly how I deserve.
” He glanced at me again, eyes unreadable now. “I won’t hold this day against you.”
The world seemed to tilt. His voice hovered, rough and careful, like he’d handed me an escape wrapped in a confession.
I said nothing. My heart had betrayed me enough for one night already. Instead, I rolled the window back up, the click of glass sliding into place louder than any reply I could’ve given.
He waited a minute, then started the car again. The tension didn’t fade—it only deepened, sitting in the back seat like something alive and breathing, waiting for one of us to crack first.