Chapter 25 #2
“In the last twelve months, this company had the strongest year in its history. More importantly, more of that year went back to the people who did the work than ever before.”
My eyes burn.
“That did not happen because James Ellerin’s granddaughter inherited something valuable.”
Cade’s voice changes. Not much, but I hear it.
“It happened because Sienna Ellerin Belluomo earned the trust of the people who were already here, asked better questions than the rest of us, and refused to accept that protecting a legacy meant leaving it untouched.”
Marsh is smiling at me. The bastard.
Cade takes a breath, and his eyes hold mine.
“James built a company people believed in. His granddaughter gave them new reasons to.”
The first person stands before Cade says my name. Then another, and another, and by the time he says, “Sienna. Come up here,” the room is already on its feet.
I can’t move. Every face in it is turned toward me.
Cade steps away from the microphone. He doesn’t come down to get me, and he doesn’t reach for my hand. He waits.
I stand.
Patricia is somewhere behind me making a noise that suggests she has forgotten we are in public, Barbara is crying, and Nancy catches my eye and gives me one small nod. Marsh hugs me before I make it past his chair, and then I go up.
Cade meets me at the edge of the stage.
“Surprise,” he says under the applause.
“I may kill you.”
“Later?”
“Possibly.”
He grins, and then he gives me the microphone and steps back. All the way back.
I look out at the room. Nobody is leaving, and every face in it is on me. So is Cade’s, from the edge of the stage.
It takes almost twenty minutes to get from the stage to Cade, because apparently being unexpectedly honored means everyone who has ever met you needs to tell you something about it.
He meets me halfway across the floor, and instead of turning us toward Patricia’s table he steers me toward the doors. One of the security men falls in behind us.
I point.
“Still excessive.”
“Still staying.”
“She’s in Europe.”
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m fairly certain she’s not about to rappel through the skylight.”
“Fairly certain is doing a lot of work in that sentence.”
I laugh.
“Two minutes, then the table,” he says, and pushes the door open.
His hand settles at the small of my back as we step into the quieter corridor outside the ballroom.
“That was beautiful,” he says.
“The speech?”
“The speech. And you giving it.” He stops in the corridor and turns me toward him. “You had that room before you said a word, and I’ve never once had a room like that. Then you started talking and I forgot I’d said anything up there at all.”
I look at him. “You already met today’s quota.”
“I don’t have one.”
He studies my face. “Are you angry?”
“About the award?”
“The ambush.”
“A little.”
“Fair.”
“I’m also happy.”
His shoulders loosen.
“And proud,” I add. “I did not say you were forgiven for conspiring with Marsh.”
“Understood.”
“We’ll discuss consequences later.”
“I’m looking forward to them.”
“Cade.”
“I’m trying to behave.”
I laugh and turn toward the ballroom.
His fingers close around mine.
“Sienna.”
Low, and none of the banter in it. I turn back. He doesn’t let go of my hand; he uses it to draw me a half-step closer. He’s looking at me differently now. Not uncertain. There’s a vulnerability in his face he would never let anyone else in this building see.
“Marry me.”
I stare at him.
Then I look deliberately down at our joined hands, at the heavy gold band on his ring finger, and the diamonds on mine.
“Cade.”
“Yes.”
“We’re married.”
“I am aware.”
“Our divorce papers have been sitting in a locked drawer for a year.”
“I am also aware of that.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He doesn’t look down. His thumb moves once over the back of my hand.
“I gave you vows once when I thought they were terms. I understood the words. I didn’t understand what I was promising.” His hand tightens around mine. “Let me vow it this time. To love you, honor you, cherish you. In front of everyone who watched me fail to.”
I have wanted this since the day I met him. He is offering to mean it this time, in front of every one of them, and he doesn’t know yet if I’ll say yes.
“Marry me again.”
“We don’t technically need to.”
“I know.”
“You understand that.”
“Completely.”
“And you still want an entire wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Why, Cade?”
“Because the first time, I promised you a marriage I didn’t know how to give you,” he says. “This time I do.”
I can’t say anything. Cade waits, and he’s gotten very good at waiting. His eyes search mine, holding nothing back, no polished executive armor, no calculated retreat, just the raw, quiet, terrifying hope of a man who put everything on the line and left the knife in my hands.
“And then,” he says, because apparently he senses I’m close to crying and has decided to make it worse, “we’re taking a honeymoon.”
“We were in Venice last month.”
“That was a vacation. A honeymoon is what comes after I marry you properly.”
“Okay,” I say.
His face opens.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“To the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“And the honeymoon.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t push it.”
His laugh breaks free, warm and surprised.
I pull him toward me by the front of his jacket.
“Yes to both.”
He kisses me. Not long enough to ruin my lipstick. Almost.
When we go back into the ballroom, Patricia spots our faces before we make it halfway to the table.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she says. “What did he do now?”
Nancy takes one look at my hand in Cade’s and reaches for the good bottle. Barbara starts crying without asking a single question. Cade pulls out my chair at their table, and I sit, and he takes the chair beside mine.
Around us, the room keeps going. People laugh.
Glasses touch. Marsh is telling a story too loudly at the next table.
Patricia is demanding details I have no intention of giving her yet.
I last another minute before admitting we’re having another wedding.
Cade is pretending not to hear the increasingly specific honeymoon suggestions coming from my left.
His hand finds mine beneath the table, and I turn my palm into his.
A year ago I thought happily ever after was the part that came after somebody finally learned how not to hurt you. I know better now. It’s this. A crowded table. My company having its best year. My friends arguing over champagne. My husband beside me, in love with me, staying.
His fingers tighten around mine. I look at him, and he’s already looking at me, and neither of us looks away.
“My husband,” I say, for no reason except that I can.
He smiles the real one, the one nobody else gets. “Say it again.”
So I do.