Chapter 22
Quinn
Gray morning light spilled through the apartment windows, soft and quiet, like the city hadn’t quite woken up yet.
Quinn was already awake.
She lay on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other resting lightly on the curve of Avery’s waist. Avery was pressed into her side, leg slung over Quinn’s hip, cheek nestled below her collarbone, her warm breath rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
One hand sprawled across Quinn’s stomach, her fingers twitching now and then like she was still dreaming. She let out a faint, endearing snore.
Quinn didn’t want to move.
Not yet. Not when everything about this moment felt so good. So rare.
She wasn’t used to waking up like this — wrapped around someone, needed without words, claimed in small unconscious gestures. Avery fit against her like she belonged there, like this was something Quinn had been missing without knowing it.
But the real world was already there.
She felt it in the buzz of Avery’s phone on the nightstand. In the quiet pull of her internal clock reminding her about emails, meetings, responsibilities she couldn’t quite outrun even when she tried.
Five more minutes.
Quinn shifted slightly, just enough to lean in and brush her lips against Avery’s temple. She kept her voice low, careful, like she didn’t want to fracture the stillness.
“Hey,” she murmured. “It’s almost seven.”
Avery groaned into her shoulder. “No. I was dreaming about the pasta.”
Quinn chuckled, the sound vibrating in her chest. “I’m flattered. The sex didn’t make the cut?”
Avery cracked one eye open and looked up at her with a sleepy smirk. “You were in the dream. You were holding the pasta.”
Quinn grinned despite herself and kissed her again, this time on the nose. “We’ll get more.”
They moved through the morning with the easy rhythm of people who’d been doing this longer than a handful of scattered days.
Brushing their teeth side by side, shoulders bumping at the sink. Sharing the mirror, dodging each other’s elbows. Trading the same mug of coffee back and forth like it belonged to both of them.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t strategic.
It was domestic.
And Quinn felt something in her chest shift every time Avery reached for her without thinking.
She buttoned a navy blouse, tucked into high-waisted slacks, smoothing the fabric as she adjusted the cuffs. Avery stepped into the room behind her, heels in one hand, already dressed in a black jumpsuit with gold accents that hugged her in all the right places.
Quinn turned.
And froze.
Her eyes lingered on Avery, unhurried, until they found her lips — deep burgundy and distracting in a way that felt unfair.
“You look like you run the world,” Quinn said, her voice coming out a little rougher than she intended.
Avery smiled as she slipped on her heels. “I do.”
Quinn huffed softly, shaking her head, but she didn’t argue.
They grabbed their bags, locked the door behind them, and walked to the subway hand in hand.
Quinn didn’t usually do public affection.
She’d never liked the feeling of being on display. Of letting the world see parts of her that felt private.
But this — with Avery’s fingers laced through hers, with the quiet confidence in the way Avery walked beside her — felt natural.
Easy.
Avery nudged her with a shoulder. “You’re smiling again.”
Quinn tilted her head. “Am I?”
“Mhm,” Avery said with a grin. “You get this little smirk when you’re trying not to be obvious.”
Quinn didn’t deny it.
“Guess I like Mondays more when they start with you,” she admitted.
Avery’s brows lifted like she wanted to laugh but didn’t want to break the moment. Instead, she leaned in and kissed her — quick and sure — right there on the sidewalk, not caring who saw.
Quinn let her.
They kissed again before the subway stairs, soft and easy, then headed in opposite directions.
No fanfare.
No awkward pause.
Just the quiet comfort of knowing exactly where they stood.
—
By Wednesday, it felt like a routine Quinn wasn’t used to trusting.
Beautiful enough to want.
Dangerous enough to lose.
And she hated that she was already calculating the risk.
They woke tangled together, half-asleep and reluctant to move.
Shared showers started as an attempt to save time but quickly turned into something else entirely. Wet skin. Pressed bodies. Avery’s laughter bouncing off tile while Quinn pinned her there and whispered things that made her gasp.
Quinn wasn’t reckless.
She didn’t let herself blur lines.
And yet here she was — memorizing the sound of Avery’s laugh against tile.
Coffee came next. Usually one of them still towel-damp, hair dripping onto the floor. They passed the French press like it was sacred. Quinn scrolled headlines while Avery toasted bagels or poured cereal.
They shared everything.
Food. Clothes. Mornings.
They kissed like it was both a greeting and a promise.
Then they worked.
Quinn disappeared into coworking spaces in Midtown or took meetings at coffee shops. She slipped easily back into CEO mode — sharp, controlled, composed. But even in the middle of numbers and negotiations, she found herself thinking about the way Avery had looked that morning.
Avery stepped back into the fast-paced world of Lilith, commanding rooms like she was born to do it.
They barely texted during the day — both too busy — but there was comfort in that.
In knowing the other would be there when the day ended.
Evenings became sacred.
Dinner cooked side by side. Quinn with her sleeves rolled up, dicing vegetables while Avery stirred something on the stove.
Music low and soulful. Playful arguments over recipes.
Shared bites off forks. Kisses in the kitchen just because they could.
One night it was Thai curry. Another, tacos with lime crema and avocado.
Tonight, creamy tomato pasta with garlic bread toasted to perfection. Avery made it just to watch Quinn melt.
“You’re trying to seduce me with food,” Quinn said, closing her eyes after the first bite.
“It’s working,” Avery murmured, licking sauce from her thumb.
Quinn’s stomach tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with pasta.
After dinner came wine. A blanket on the couch. Shows half-watched because they were too busy touching—legs tangled, fingers brushing, eyes lingering.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t need to. And sometimes, like tonight, the quiet turned into something else.
Avery emerged from the bathroom with damp hair twisted in a towel, wearing one of Quinn’s old T-shirts and a smug little smile. She climbed onto the bed, settling over Quinn’s hips, hands planted on either side of her head.
“You smell like soap and sin,” Avery murmured.
Quinn’s hands slid to her thighs automatically. “You’re trouble.”
Avery rolled her hips deliberately. “You like trouble.”
Quinn’s gaze darkened. “I love it when it looks like you.”
They didn’t rush. Didn’t strategize. Didn’t overthink. They just breathed each other in.
Afterward, Quinn lay beneath her, fingers tracing slow circles on the bare skin of Avery’s back. She kissed just behind her ear, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I could stay like this forever.”
Avery, sleepy and soft, curled closer. “Then do.”
Quinn didn’t answer, not because she didn’t want to. But because staying had never been her strong suit.
—
Quinn sat at the long conference table in Lilith’s meeting room, palms resting on either side of her tablet, posture calm but alert. She wasn’t here to perform or take up space. She was here because she meant it. Because she wanted to build something that mattered.
Across from her, Avery leaned back in her chair, fingers loosely steepled beneath her chin.
Her expression was thoughtful, unreadable, like she was weighing more than just numbers.
Gabby sat beside her with a legal pad open, pen poised, her focus sharp.
She looked composed, but there was tension in the set of her shoulders that Quinn didn’t miss. Quinn understood it.
Gabby had grown up with this company. Lilith wasn’t just Avery’s dream; it was hers too. She had poured years into it, fought for it, protected it. Whatever happened next would change everything. And she wasn’t going to let that happen lightly.
Quinn met her eyes first. “I want to say something upfront,” she said, her voice even but warm. “If this goes forward, I’m not here to swallow Lilith whole. That’s not the goal. I’m not interested in changing your identity or micromanaging what already works.”
Gabby’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Avery didn’t look surprised, but she did look relieved. Like she hadn’t wanted to assume Quinn would say it, but she’d hoped she would.
Quinn continued. “What I’m proposing isn’t an acquisition or a buyout.
It’s a merger. I’d hold sixty percent. The remaining forty would stay with you both as equal partners.
Halo would provide infrastructure, tech support, international distribution, funding, and legal protections.
But Lilith stays Lilith. You’d retain brand identity.
Leadership autonomy. The team you built.
That’s what makes this smart for both of us. ”
There was a beat of silence.
Gabby blinked. “Sixty–forty?”
Quinn nodded. “I considered fifty-fifty. But Halo would be bringing the platform, the teams, and the long-term investor relationships. Sixty reflects that without diminishing what you’ve built. And forty gives you real power, not a symbolic stake.”
Avery gave a small, thoughtful nod. “That makes sense.”
Gabby tilted her head. “You’re really okay with us retaining day-to-day leadership?”
Quinn met her gaze evenly. “I’d prefer it. You understand your users. Your voice. I’m not here to fix anything. I’m here to scale what already works and help protect it while you keep building it.”
Something shifted. Quinn could feel the mood in the room change. Gabby’s posture eased, something deeper than just skepticism. It was trust, beginning to form.
Avery leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table now, voice lower. “What about hiring autonomy? And community partnerships?”
“You keep both,” Quinn said without hesitation. “The Loop Collective, any outreach efforts—none of that gets cut. In fact, I’d suggest expanding it. We’ve got data from similar efforts at Halo, and the long-term engagement returns are massive.”
Gabby scribbled something on her notepad. Avery glanced toward her, then back to Quinn. “You really thought this through.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,” Quinn said, softer now. “I don’t do things halfway.”
Avery’s lips quirked like she wanted to smile but didn’t. She looked proud. Maybe even touched.
“We wouldn’t sign anything today,” Gabby said, almost like a question.
“Of course not.” Quinn gestured toward her tablet but didn’t touch it. “Today is about clarity. About understanding what this could look like. I’ll draft a letter of intent when I’m back in L.A., something you can sit with, review with counsel, and tear apart if you need to.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Avery asked.
Quinn nodded. “Just for a week. I’ve got meetings I can’t reschedule. But I’ll fly back after that to finalize everything. Assuming everyone’s still on board.”
Gabby glanced at Avery. “I think we are.”
Avery smiled then. Not a performative one. Something quiet. Real. “We are.”
And something in Quinn’s chest loosened. This wasn’t just a good business move. It was the right one.
She’d come in expecting to convince them.
Fight to win control. But the truth was, she didn’t want control for the sake of it.
She wanted this. The way Avery lit up when she talked about her team.
The way Gabby brought a fire and steadiness to every point she raised.
The soul of Lilith mattered. And Quinn had finally stopped pretending she didn’t care about that kind of thing.
She’d come in expecting to feel powerful. She walked out feeling rooted.
They stood, Gabby was already pulling out her phone, talking about setting up a data room and reviewing internal KPIs. Avery stayed back a moment, watching Quinn with something unreadable in her expression.
As the door closed behind Gabby, Avery stepped closer.
“That was… really good.”
Quinn offered a small shrug. “I meant it.”
Avery nodded, then leaned up just slightly and pressed a kiss to Quinn’s cheek. “Thank you.”
It was quiet, reverent. And it knocked the air out of her more than any signed contract could.
Quinn let her fingers trail against Avery’s wrist, light and lingering. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“You better be,” Avery murmured.
They left the office side by side, stepping into the late afternoon light with something that felt heavier than paperwork and lighter than air.
A beginning.
* * *