Chapter 37
Greyson
Holy fucking shit.
Clara looks like spring decided to take human form.
The second she steps out of the bedroom, I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing sunflower yellow.
Not subtle.
Not muted.
Not safe.
Sunflower yellow.
And it’s absolutely my favorite color.
The gown skims her curves like it was made with her in mind—flutter sleeves soft against her arms, a long ruffled skirt that moves like liquid light when she walks.
Her hair is swept to one side, held with a crystal pin that catches the room’s glow, long dark curls spilling over her shoulder and brushing the curve of her chest.
She looks luminous.
She looks powerful.
She looks like she belongs nowhere except exactly where she chooses to stand.
And God help me, she looks like mine.
The thought is possessive and fierce and terrifying all at once.
The ring in my pocket feels like it’s on fire.
I wasn’t planning this tonight.
I meant to wait.
To stage something quieter. More private.
Mountain air and stars instead of cameras and champagne.
But watching her now?
Knowing I’m about to walk into that gallery and claim my name publicly?
I don’t want to wait.
We ride down in silence.
Get in the car.
The city blurs by.
Her hand resting lightly on my thigh in the back of the limo.
The driver pulls up to the gallery entrance.
Lights. Cameras.
A small but very real line of photographers gathered behind velvet ropes.
My agent stands just inside the doorway, scanning for me.
The door opens.
Cool evening air and the sounds of Manhattan rush in.
The driver stands, holds the door open—waiting.
I don’t move.
Instead, I turn to her.
“Clara—”
She looks up immediately, eyes bright, searching my face.
“Yeah? Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I probably look unhinged.
Because I feel unhinged.
“Yeah,” I say, though my pulse is hammering. “Before we go in there… I have something I need to say to you.”
Her expression shifts—curious, steady.
“What is it?”
I reach for the ring in my pocket—and that’s when my agent barrels toward us.
“Greyson! Come on, they’re waiting,” she hisses urgently.
The flashes are already going off.
Paparazzi shouting my name.
The pseudonym.
“GCM! Look this way!”
“Is it true? Are you the Lumberjack Artist?”
I want to slam the door.
Tell the driver to go.
Take her back to the hotel.
Back to privacy. Back to the mountain.
But then—her hand slides into mine.
Warm.
Steady.
Grounding.
She doesn’t pull back.
She doesn’t look scared.
She squeezes once.
And I know.
This isn’t just about art.
This is about stepping forward.
For us.
For the life I want.
So I step out of the limo.
The flashes explode.
Voices keep calling out.
I ignore all of it and turn back, holding my hand out to her.
For a heartbeat, everything slows.
She places her hand in mine.
And when our fingers lace together, the noise fades.
The cameras fade.
The city fades.
She steps out beside me, sunlight yellow against black pavement, and the crowd actually gasps.
She’s stunning.
She’s fearless.
She’s here.
I straighten, draw her slightly closer, and walk forward.
Not as a myth.
Not as a reclusive mountain artist.
But as a man in love.
Whatever happens inside those doors—whatever critics say, whatever headlines spin—none of it matters more than this.
Her hand in mine.
Her choosing to stand with me.
Nothing matters more than her.
And the ring still burning in my pocket.
Not yet.
But soon.