Chapter Twenty-Four
Corbin
A soft knock raps against my office door. I lean back in my chair, exhaling, before calling out, “Come in.”
The moment the door swings open and Jules steps inside, I’m on my feet.
“Hey,” she says, her voice light, but there’s something unreadable in her expression.
She’s holding something—a canvas, from the looks of it—but I can’t focus on that. Not yet. Not when her hazelnut eyes are warm and open, her easy smile curling just enough to make my chest tighten.
“I hope it’s okay that I stopped by,” she continues, pausing a few steps from my desk.
It’s always okay. She should know that by now.
“Of course,” I say as I force myself to breathe, to keep my hands from reaching for her like it’s instinct.
Jules shifts on her feet, glancing down at the canvas. “I finished the pine trees.”
She clears her throat, her fingers gripping the edges just a little too tightly. She’s nervous. I can see it in the way she sways slightly, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
I step around my desk, watching as she slowly turns the painting toward me.
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out.
It’s stunning. Deep, layered greens stretch into a sky streaked with soft gold, the watercolor strokes capturing something timeless—rooted, unshaken, like the trees themselves belong to something infinite.
Like her.
Like us.
“It’s amazing,” I say, the words barely scratching the surface of what I feel.
Jules bites her bottom lip, shifting again. “I want you to have it.”
My gaze snaps to hers. “Me?”
She nods, pressing the canvas into my hands.
“Why?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
Jules lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, but her eyes betray her. They shine with something raw, something unspoken. “I painted it with you in mind.”
My heart beats out of sync as I hold her work in my hands, the weight of it heavier than it should be. “Thank you.”
“It’s the first piece I’ve finished in over two years,” she admits softly, like she’s confessing something private.
I glance between her and the painting before turning to the black-and-white modern piece hanging behind my desk. It’s sterile, impersonal. Something my dad had put up when he remodeled the office a few months ago. I’ve never really liked it, never really cared enough to take it down.
Until now.
Reaching for it, I pull it from the wall and set it aside before lifting Jules’ painting into its place. I step back, taking in the way the deep greens contrast against the sleek lines of my office. It doesn’t just look better. It feels right. Like it belongs here. Like she belongs here.
“There,” I say. “Perfect.”
Jules exhales, her fingers twisting together like she’s working up the nerve to say something else. Her teeth graze her lower lip before she finally looks up at me.
“I, uh…” She hesitates, just for a second. “I actually stopped by for another reason.”
My brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
She takes a small step closer, and it’s like the air shifts between us, crackling with something unsaid. “I’ve been thinking,” she starts, carefully choosing her words. “And I wanted to ask you if you’d go on a date with me?”
A date.
I stare at her, my brain trying to process what I just heard.
She must sense my temporary mental shutdown because she clears her throat and quickly adds, “Yeah, um, I just… I think we should do something alone together. Without Tate. And see if there’s… you know, something still here.”
Something.
I know there’s something still here. It’s in the way she looks at me when she thinks I don’t notice. It’s the way her breath catches when I touch her. The way she keeps coming back, even when she’s unsure of where we stand.
If she needs a date to prove it, then hell, I’m all in.
“I’d love to,” I say steadily despite the way my pulse kicks up.
Her face softens into a wide smile, like she wasn’t entirely sure what my answer would be. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “What did you have in mind?”
“I have it all planned,” she says, her confidence building now. “Tate is spending the night at Leo’s on Friday,” she reminds me, “so I was thinking we could go on our date then.”
Friday. Four days away. That’s an eternity.
It might actually kill me to get through the rest of the week knowing that a night alone with her is waiting on the other side.
“Yeah,” I say, my lips curving into a slow smile. “That works.”
She exhales, like she’s been holding her breath this whole time. Like maybe this is as big a moment for her as it is for me.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel something dangerously close to hope.
“Come here,” I murmur, reaching for her hand.
She laughs softly, a sound that slides right under my skin, warm and familiar. But she doesn’t resist as I tug her to me. Her palm instinctively lands against my chest, right over my heart, and I wonder if she can feel the way it pounds for her.
I reach up, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, my fingers lingering just long enough to trace the delicate curve of her jaw. Then, I tilt her chin up, my thumb brushing over her skin as I lean down, pressing my lips to hers.
All our other kisses over the past few weeks have been feverish, edged with urgency. Like we were teetering on the edge of something we weren’t ready to name.
But this kiss… this kiss is different.
It’s soft. Intentional.
We’re not kissing like we’re afraid it might be the last. We’re kissing like it’s the beginning of something more. Something real.
I slide my arms around her, pulling her even closer, and she melts into me, sighing softly against my mouth. It’s a sound that unravels me. Like coming home after wandering for too many years.
When I finally pull back, I keep her close, just far enough to take her in. The soft glow of the office lights catches the golden flecks in her hazelnut eyes, and I swear I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.
Not just because she’s Jules—she’s always been beautiful—but because this version of her, the strong, independent, fiercely determined woman standing in front of me, rivals every version I’ve loved before.
She exhales, almost like she’s thinking the same thing, before laying her head against my shoulder.
And I hold her there, our hearts beating against one another’s, as if they’re trying to remind us this is where we belong.
But the moment shatters like glass at the sharp sound of someone clearing their throat.
My head snaps toward the doorway.
Standing there, his expression twisted in fury, is my father.
“Am I interrupting something?” he snarls, his voice dripping with condescension.
Jules tenses beside me, her hands dropping to her sides. The fire in her—the fiercely independent Jules I’ve watched come back to life—flickers, withdrawing into itself. It’s the same look she had that night at the gala when he humiliated her for showing up late, paint-stained and unapologetic.
I step in front of her without thinking, my body instinctively blocking his line of fire. “What do you need?”
“Did you forget we have a meeting right now?” he snaps. “With Susan.”
There’s no meeting.
I know it. He knows it. He’s doing this to get under Jules’ skin.
“It’s not on my schedule,” I say evenly.
His gaze narrows on Jules, the same cruel smirk curving his lips that he’s perfected over the years. “What’s your ex-wife doing here?”
“If this isn’t about work—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Does Susan know you’re getting cozy with your ex?” His tone is taunting, his smirk deepening as his gaze flicks to Jules, dissecting, demeaning, trying to make her feel small.
My grip tightens around Jules’ hand, a silent reassurance.
“Why would she?” I ask coolly. “Susan is my co-worker. That’s it.”
Jules’ breathing hitches at my words. I don’t dare look at her, but I can feel the shift in her body behind me.
Dad lets out a low chuckle. “We all know that’s not true.”
I keep my expression calm, cool. “I’m in the middle of something. If you could wait outside until I’m done, that’d be great.”
His face darkens. “I don’t pay you to make out with your ex-wife,” he thunders. “I pay you to do a goddamn job.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment.
The way he says it—as if he owns me, as if my worth is tied solely to the number on my paycheck—something inside me finally snaps into place.
“I quit.”
The words leave my mouth before I even fully register them.
The room stills.
“What?” Dad and Jules say at the same time, their voices layered in shock.
I turn to face him fully, my grip on Jules’ hand unwavering. “I quit.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Panic? No. He doesn’t panic. He controls. He manipulates. He forces people to bend to his will.
But not me. Not anymore.
I take a step back, still holding Jules’ hand, and reach for the painting she brought me. My fingers brush against the textured canvas. The piece she created with me in mind.
A symbol of something real. Something worth fighting for.
Unlike this. Unlike him.
“You’re not quitting,” Dad snaps, stepping in front of the door like a blockade.
I meet his gaze, steady, unshaken. “I am.” I grab my laptop bag, adjusting it on my shoulder before reaching for Jules’ hand again. “I should have quit years ago, but I didn’t know how.”
Now, I do.
And for the first time in my life, I walk past my father without looking back.
“Did that really just happen?” Jules gasps as we step out of the building, her hand still firmly in mine.
“It did,” I say, exhaling a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for years.
She shakes her head, her curls bouncing with the motion. “You quit.” She says it again, like she needs to hear it to believe it. “You quit .”
I glance over at her as we approach my car, the reality settling into my bones. “I know.”
“You quit ,” she repeats, but this time, there’s something in her voice. Something warm, something in awe. Like it’s the bravest thing she’s ever seen me do.
The way she looks at me right now. It makes my heart beat harder, faster.
“I’ve been thinking about going into consulting,” I tell her, the words coming easier than I expected. “I’ve been miserable there for so long. I should have quit the night of the gala.”
The mention of it makes her expression shift, her features tightening with the weight of that memory. “You should have.”
When we reach my car, I prop her painting up against the tire and step closer, cupping her face between my hands. “I’m so sorry for that night. For every moment since then. For not choosing you when I should have.”
She nods, her hazelnut eyes searching mine. “I know.”
“I should have walked out of that place with you and never looked back.” It comes out firm, steady, because I know it’s true. I should have chosen her then, but I did choose her now. And that has to count for something.
Jules blinks up at me, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You just did.” She squeezes my wrist, holding on tight. “Maybe it was two years late, but you did it.”
I let out a breath of laughter, a mix of disbelief and relief. “Yeah,” I say, “I did.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, and when she speaks, it’s softer, more certain than anything she’s said in weeks. “I’m proud of you, Corbin.” The words hit deep, settling in the places I didn’t know needed healing. “I’m so damn proud of you.”
I want to tell her that I love her. That I’ve never stopped loving her.
But instead, I kiss her.
I kiss her the way I should have that night at the gala—without hesitation, without fear. And as she melts into me, as she kisses me back with just as much certainty, I know that no matter what happens next, she understands one thing: I chose her.
And I always will.