Chapter 23
Iturned the corner onto the sun-dappled street, and my eyes instantly found her.
My lips curved into a smile before I could even think.
Her gaze swept across the stream of traffic, scanning the opposite sidewalk before finally catching mine.
The moment she saw me, her face lit up. The slight frown of impatience melted away, replaced by a smile that was just for me—wide, real, crinkling the corners of her eyes.
I’d had a client meeting two blocks from her office. Booking lunch right after was instinct. The second the meeting ended, my mind had only one destination.
I waited for the crosswalk light, the longest sixty seconds of my life, my eyes never leaving hers. The second it changed, I was moving, weaving through pedestrians until I reached her side.
The moment I reached her, her hand slipped naturally through the crook of my arm, her fingers curling around my sleeve as she tucked herself against me. We fell into step together, a perfect, unthinking rhythm.
She let out a long sigh, leaning her head briefly against my shoulder. “So I’ve been looking at rings online, and it’s officially the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done. It’s either, ‘Oh my God, that one’s perfect, and that one, and that one,’ or, ‘Absolutely not. Hideous.’”
Her shoulders slumped. “You know what? Forget platinum and diamonds. Let’s just get one of those giant candy rings and be done with it. It’s colorful, it’s edible, it’s perfect. What do you think?”
She looked up at me, her eyes bright with laughter and a love so open it still stole my breath.
My hand was inside my coat, my fingers curled around the velvet box.
I’d been carrying it everywhere for weeks.
It lived in my pocket, a secret weight against my heart, waiting for a moment that felt as real as she was.
The day she’d proposed—bluntly, beautifully—I’d almost given it to her then.
But that was her moment. I didn’t want to overshadow it.
“We can do that,” I said, my voice a little thicker than I’d intended. “Or…”
I gently pulled us to a stop, turning us toward each other on the busy sidewalk. She looked up at me, a question in her eyes.
My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I reached into my coat, the world narrowing to the space between our faces. I drew out the box, small, black, and impossibly significant.
I opened it.
“You can wear this.”
I gulped, the sound loud in my own ears. My eyes flicked from the ring to her face, terrified and hopeful.
She didn’t look at me. Her eyes locked on the ring. A full, silent moment stretched, long enough for a dozen doubts to bloom in my mind. Then her lower lip trembled. She blinked quickly, and a sheen of tears glossed her eyes before she finally dragged her gaze up to meet mine.
“I don’t have a ring for you,” she whispered, her voice thick. She gave a small, helpless shrug, a gesture of such pure, sad honesty it cracked something open in my chest.
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped me, more relief than sound. My hand rose, my fingers gently cupping the side of her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. I leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.
“That’s okay,” I murmured against her skin, my voice rough with emotion. “You have you. That’s all I want.”
I leaned back, my own vision suspiciously blurry. I took the ring from its nest, tucked the empty box into my pocket, and reached for her left hand. Her fingers were trembling slightly. With a reverence I didn’t know I possessed, I slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit as if it had been waiting for her.
I lifted her hand and pressed my lips to the cool metal of the new ring, then to her skin just below it.
“Besides,” I murmured against her knuckles, “you can always just get me one of those candy rings and be done with it.”
She let out a watery, incredulous laugh, her gaze locked on the diamond sparkling against her skin. Then her eyes, bright and liquid, found mine. She slid her hand around the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, and pulled me close until her forehead rested against mine.
“Stealing my line, Sterling?”
My hands found the familiar curve of her waist, pulling her closer against me.
“We’re going to get married, Alessia,” I said, the words a low, thrilling truth. “We’ll have to share everything. Fifty-fifty.”
Her eyebrows arched, that familiar, mischievous spark returning.
“Speak for yourself. I’m not sharing anything. My snacks are mine. My thoughts are mine. This ring,” she wiggled her finger between us, the diamond catching the light, “definitely mine.”
“Fine,” I conceded, my thumb tracing the curve of her hip. “Then I’ll share everything. My half is yours.”
She scowled, the effect ruined by the smile still dancing on her lips.
“But Cassian, how will you survive with just half a brain cell if you give me the other half?”
My head fell forward, my laughter a soft puff of air against her neck. I nuzzled the sensitive spot just below her ear.
“Is this how our marriage is going to be?” I mumbled into her skin. “You just roasting me at every possible turn?”
She turned her head, her lips brushing my cheek in a soft, fleeting kiss that sent a current straight through me.
“Probably.”
My arms tightened around her.
“Can’t wait,” I whispered into the shell of her ear.
Then I closed the last inch between us, and my lips found hers.
My eyes tracked Alessia. They hadn’t left her for the last hour. I didn’t have to think about it. Wherever she moved, my attention moved with her.
Months had passed since the project began. The frantic energy of the launch had settled into the steady, unglamorous rhythm of execution. This was the work—the endless meetings, the meticulous timelines, the nitpicky revisions, the long, dusty site visits.
I stood off to the side of the space, close enough to hear but far enough to stay out of the way.
Alessia stood with a tablet in one hand, a stylus in the other, tapping and swiping with sharp, efficient motions.
Printed schedules and floor plans were spread across the counter.
She’d point, Naija would nod, her fingers flying across her own tablet.
A low, rapid-fire exchange of industry shorthand passed between them.
She was in her element. A force of pure, distilled focus.
She didn’t glance my way.
Last week had been our final one-on-one meeting.
I’d arrived early that day, a knot of irrational dread in my stomach.
I hated that the meetings were ending. They’d become my only sanctioned access to her—a structured, professional hour where I could just be in the same room, listening to her voice, watching the way she’d tap her pen against her lower lip when she was thinking.
Even if all we discussed were timelines, press kits, and seating charts, it was something.
After that, we had only one big, final group walkthrough left. Then the project would run on its own momentum, and I’d have no more reasons to be in her orbit.
I’d been pacing a trench into the carpet outside her office door, my mind a riot of useless things I wanted to say, while inside, she was finishing another meeting. When the door finally swung open, I turned too quickly, my body snapping to attention.
And then I froze.
“Rohan?” Surprise sharpened my voice.
“Sir!” he squeaked, then cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “What are you doing here? Isn’t your meeting with Ms. Quinn scheduled for…” He frantically checked his watch. “…in one hour and seven minutes?”
“It is,” I confirmed, my eyes narrowing. I took a step closer. The air around him seemed to vibrate with guilty energy. “But what are you doing here? Didn’t you take a personal day? Something about your grandmother being… sick?”
Rohan’s hands came together in a nervous, prayer-like clasp. He looked down at his interlocked fingers as if they might contain a script.
“She is sick,” he said, then paused, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. “…of me.”
He frowned down at his own words.
Before either of us could stammer another word, Alessia appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the frame, her hands tucked casually into the pockets of her trousers, her expression one of mild, amused exasperation.
“He’s here to sign a modeling contract,” she stated, her voice cutting through the thick awkwardness. “His grandmother is the one who encouraged him to try it. The shoot’s on a weekend, so no work hours are impacted.”
Her gaze flicked between Rohan’s mortified face and my stunned one.
“So, now that’s settled,” she said, her gaze landing squarely on me, all business, “shall we?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed off the doorframe and disappeared back into her office.
I turned to Rohan, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“You could have just told me the truth instead of the… sick grandmother performance.”
He nodded vigorously, eyes wide.
“You’re absolutely right, sir. My apologies. Next time.”
I gave a curt nod, accepting the apology, and turned to follow Alessia. I’d taken two steps when my brain processed his last two words.
My head swiveled back.
“Wait. Next time?”
But Rohan was already halfway down the hall, his pace suspiciously brisk. He pulled his phone to his ear and adopted a suddenly, suspiciously cheerful voice.
“Yes, Grandma! On my way! So excited!”
I shook my head, a baffled smile tugging at my lips despite myself, and entered her office. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me into the quiet, familiar space for what I knew would be the last scheduled hour I would ever have with her alone.
Today, she was here to finalize the press logistics—a technical, granular process of walking the raw space with Naija.
They were mapping the choreography of chaos: checking sightlines for cameras, timing the flow of guests, marking where light would fall and where shadows would hide.
It was the blueprint of a moment, and she was its architect.