Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Heather
The morning after the world exploded, I woke up to the smell of burnt toast and the feeling of absolute, unshakeable peace.
It was a strange juxtaposition. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Spire, the media circus was in full swing.
I could practically feel the telephoto lenses trained on the balcony.
My phone, which I had wisely turned off, was likely vibrating itself into oblivion with notifications from CNN, TMZ, and my Aunt Linda in Ohio asking if I was pregnant.
But inside the duvet cocoon, pressed against the warm, solid wall of Jerry Vane’s chest, none of that mattered.
I stretched, wincing slightly as my muscles protested the tension of the last forty-eight hours. My left hand felt heavy. I lifted it into the sliver of sunlight cutting through the curtains.
The diamond caught the light. It wasn't the Hope Diamond. It wasn't one of the gaudy rocks Bianca St. James sported. It was vintage, elegant, and bought in a pawn shop by a man running on caffeine and desperation.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Stop staring at it," a gravelly voice murmured against the top of my head. "It's blinding me."
I smiled, lowering my hand to rest on his pectoral muscle. "I can't help it. It proves I didn't hallucinate the press conference. You really did that, didn't you? You told the entire world we were engaged."
"I did," Jerry agreed, tightening his arm around my waist. "Seemed efficient. Why tell people one by one when you can tell everyone at once?"
"You're insane," I whispered.
"I'm liberated," he corrected. He shifted, rolling us until he was hovering over me.
He looked different. The dark circles under his eyes were fading. The tension that usually lived in his jaw—the constant, grinding pressure of being "The Judge"—was gone. He looked younger. Lighter.
"How do you feel?" I asked, reaching up to trace the line of his stubble. "Really?"
"Like I just walked out of a prison I didn't know I was in," he said softly. He kissed my nose. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good. Because I attempted toast. It went poorly. But I have coffee."
We disentangled ourselves from the sheets—a reluctant, slow process involving a lot of lingering touches—and padded out to the kitchen.
The kitchen island, once the site of our tense, contract-bound breakfasts, was now a disaster zone of crumbs and coffee grounds. It was perfect.
Jerry poured two mugs of black coffee. He leaned against the counter, wearing only his sweatpants, the waistband riding low on his hips. He watched me drink.
"We have a meeting at noon," he said casually.
I paused, mug halfway to my mouth. "A meeting? With who? The Dean? The NCAA?"
"My father," Jerry said.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
I set the mug down. "Your father? Jerry... are you sure? After the press conference... he's going to be nuclear."
"He is," Jerry agreed calmly. "He's been texting me threats since we walked off the stage. He's threatening to freeze the trust, sue for defamation, and block the Kraken deal."
"Can he do that?"
"No," Jerry said. "But he thinks he can. He thinks he still holds the leash."
He walked over to me, stepping into my personal space. He wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me between his legs.
"I need to go see him," Jerry said. "I need to look him in the eye and hand him the keys. Literally. I'm giving back the penthouse keys, the car keys, the corporate credit cards. All of it."
"We're giving back the apartment?" I asked, looking around the glass castle.
"Does it bother you?" he asked, searching my face. "Going from this to... whatever we can afford in Seattle?"
I laughed. "Jerry, three weeks ago I was living in a dorm room that smelled like gym socks and despair. I don't care about the marble floors. I care about you."
He smiled—a genuine, eye-crinkling smile that made my knees weak.
"Good," he said. "Because we're going together. I'm not walking into that office alone ever again."
"I'll go put on my war paint," I said, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him.
"Wear the black dress," he whispered against my lips. "You look dangerous in it."
The Boardroom: Vane Industries
Walking into the Vane Industries headquarters felt like walking into the Death Star. It was all cold steel, aggressive lighting, and people in suits who looked like they had had their souls surgically removed.
But this time, I wasn't the terrified scholarship student hiding behind a catering tray.
I was Heather Bloom. Future Mrs. Vane. And I was holding the hand of the man who owned the building—or used to.
Jerry didn't let go of my hand. Not in the elevator. Not when the secretary gave us a scathing look. Not when we pushed open the heavy double doors of the boardroom.
Silas Vane Sr. was standing at the window, looking out at the city he thought he owned. He didn't turn around when we entered.
"You're late," he said.
"We're on time," Jerry corrected, checking his watch. "You're just impatient."
Silas turned.
He looked exactly like Jerry, but stripped of all the warmth. His eyes were the same gray, but they were flat, devoid of light. He looked at Jerry. Then he looked at me. Then he looked at our joined hands.
His lip curled.
"So," Silas said, walking to the head of the granite table. "This is the victory lap? You drag the girl in here to rub my nose in your mediocrity?"
"I dragged her here," Jerry said, his voice steady and bored, "because we're a package deal. And I wanted a witness."
"A witness to what? Your ruin?" Silas sat down.
He gestured to a stack of legal documents in front of him.
"I've spoken to the lawyers, Gerald. If you proceed with this...
engagement... and this ridiculous draft declaration, you are cut off.
The trust fund is revoked. The access to the family portfolio is terminated. You will be penniless."
I felt Jerry’s hand tighten around mine. Not in fear, but in reassurance.
"Okay," Jerry said.
Silas blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Okay," Jerry repeated. He reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a ring of keys. The Porsche key. The penthouse fob. The black AMEX card.
He tossed them onto the granite table. They slid across the polished surface with a harsh skree sound, stopping right in front of Silas.
"Keep it," Jerry said. "Keep the money. Keep the apartment. Keep the car."
Silas stared at the keys. A vein in his temple began to throb.
"You're bluffing," Silas scoffed. "You can't survive without my money.
You have expensive tastes, Gerald. You like control.
You like power. You think you can live on a rookie salary in Seattle with her?
" He gestured to me with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "She's a drain, son.
Look at her. She's practically salivating over the furniture. "
Rage flared in my chest. Hot and bright.
I stepped forward. Jerry tried to pull me back, but I held my ground.
"Mr. Vane," I said. My voice didn't shake. "I don't care about your furniture. It's uncomfortable and it lacks personality. Just like you."
Silas’s eyes widened. "How dare you—"
"No," I cut him off. "How dare you. You have a son who is brilliant. Who is loyal. Who worked himself into the ground to please you. And instead of being proud, you treated him like an asset to be managed. You broke him down so you could control him."
I squeezed Jerry’s hand, drawing strength from him.
"But you failed," I said. "Because he's not you. He has a heart. And he has me. And frankly? We don't need your money. We have each other. And we have Seattle. And we're going to be happy. Which is something you haven't been in decades."
Silence slammed into the room.
Silas looked struck. He looked at me with a mixture of shock and hatred. Then he looked at Jerry.
"You're letting her speak to me like that?" Silas demanded.
Jerry smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of the Captain after scoring the game-winning goal in overtime.
"I don't 'let' her do anything," Jerry said. "She's her own person, Dad. That's why I love her."
Jerry stepped forward. He placed his hands on the table, leaning in.
"I signed the contract with the Krakens this morning," Jerry revealed. "Without your lawyers. Without your input. The signing bonus is four million dollars. I think we'll be just fine."
Silas went pale. "You signed? Without me?"
"I don't need you," Jerry said softly. "I never did. I just wanted you. But I'm done wanting things I can't have."
Jerry straightened up. He took my hand again.
"Goodbye, Dad," he said. "Don't send a wedding gift. We'll return it."
He turned on his heel.
"Gerald!" Silas shouted, standing up. "If you walk out that door, you are no son of mine!"
Jerry paused at the door. He didn't look back.
"I know," he said. "I'm Heather's husband now. That's a much better title."
We walked out.
We walked past the gaping secretary. We walked into the elevator.
As the doors slid shut, cutting off the view of the Vane empire, Jerry let out a long, shuddering breath. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the wall.
"You okay?" I asked, touching his back.
He turned to me. His eyes were bright. He pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my hair.
"I'm free," he whispered. "I'm finally free."
The Penthouse (One Last Time)
We had twenty-four hours to move out.
It turned out, when you strip away the artifacts of a billionaire lifestyle, Jerry didn't actually own much. A few suits. His hockey gear. A watch collection.
We packed it all into the back of a rental van.
By sunset, the apartment was empty. The echo was back.
But it wasn't sad. It felt like a blank slate.
We ordered pizza—cheap, greasy pepperoni pizza—and sat on the floor of the living room, watching the sun dip below the mountains.
"So," Jerry said, biting into a slice. "We're homeless."
"We have a hotel for tonight," I reminded him. "And a flight to Seattle tomorrow morning."
"We're unemployed," he added.
"You have a multi-million dollar contract," I rolled my eyes. "And I have... well, I have a transfer application pending."
"We're happy," he said.
"We are," I agreed.
He put his pizza down. He wiped his hands on a napkin. He looked at me.
The playfulness in his eyes shifted. It darkened, turning into that familiar, heavy heat that made my breath hitch.
"We have one more thing to do before we leave," he murmured.
"Oh?" I asked, my heart starting to race. "Did we forget to clean the oven?"
"No," he said, crawling toward me across the floor. He moved like a predator—graceful, intent, hungry. "We need to break in the new dynamic."
"What dynamic is that?" I breathed, leaning back on my hands.
He stopped in front of me. He reached out and traced the line of my jaw.
"No secrets," he said. "No contracts. No fear."
He leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't desperate like the kiss in Ohio. It wasn't angry like the kiss in the library.
It was joyful. It was a celebration.
"I want you," he whispered against my mouth. "I want to celebrate with you."
"Here?" I asked, looking at the hard floor. "We packed the bed."
"I don't need a bed," he growled. "I just need you."
He pulled me down onto the floor. He took off his jacket and spread it out beneath me. A makeshift nest.
"You're ruining your coat," I noted, though my hands were already busy pulling his t-shirt over his head.
"I'll buy another one," he dismissed. "I'm rich, remember?"
I laughed, pulling him down to me.
The sex was... different.
Before, there was always a shadow. The shadow of the secret. The shadow of the end date. The shadow of his bruises.
Now, everything was light.
He took his time. He undressed me slowly, pausing to kiss every inch of skin he revealed. He murmured praise against my body—not just "good girl," but deeper things.
"My partner," he whispered, kissing my stomach. "My heart. My home."
It was overwhelming. I felt tears prick my eyes, but they were happy tears.
When he entered me, he held my gaze. He linked our fingers together, pinning my hands to the floor above my head.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. "I want to see you feel this."
"I feel it," I gasped, arching into him.
We moved together in the empty room, bathed in the orange glow of the sunset. It was slow and deep and agonizingly sweet. There was no rush to finish. We had all night. We had forever.
He made love to me like he was memorizing me. Every touch was a promise. Every thrust was a vow.
"I love you," he groaned, his forehead resting against mine as the tension coiled tight. "Heather. God. I love you."
"I love you," I cried out.
When the release came, it was pure, unadulterated joy. It washed over us, cleansing the last of the fear, the last of the doubt.
We collapsed together on the floor, tangled in his jacket and each other.
The room grew dark around us. The city lights flickered on below.
Jerry rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. He looked down at me. He traced my lips with his thumb.
"Seattle is going to be wet," he mused.
"So wet," I agreed, snuggling into his chest.
"And the coffee is supposed to be good."
"The best."
"And we'll need furniture."
"We can go to IKEA," I suggested. "Start fresh."
Jerry laughed. "IKEA. My father would have a stroke."
"Good," I said viciously.
He kissed my forehead.
"You know," he said softly. "Tank called me this morning."
"Oh yeah? What did he say?"
"He asked if I was scared. About the draft. About walking away from the family money."
"What did you tell him?"
Jerry looked at the empty apartment. Then he looked at me.
"I told him that for the first time in my life, I'm not playing defense," he said. "I'm on offense. And we're going to score."
I smiled. I reached up and pulled him down for another kiss.
"That was a terrible hockey metaphor," I murmured.
"I know," he grinned against my lips. "But it worked."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It worked."
We lay there in the dark, in the empty castle we had conquered, and listened to the sound of our own breathing.
The war was over.
The game was just beginning.
And we were winning.