Chapter 38
Clara
Sunflowers.
The word blooms in my mind before I even fully register what I’m seeing—before the champagne glasses, before the soft classical music, before the buzz of money and admiration and Manhattan being Manhattan.
Sunflowers.
My throat catches as I take them all in.
There are willows, of course—his signature landscapes etched into wood and leather and metal.
The mountains. The sunsets.
The same quiet magic that found me through a screen and pulled me all the way to Maine like a compass needle snapping toward north.
But the new work—the pieces he’s been disappearing into his workshop to make.
The ones he wouldn’t let me see.
They’re everywhere.
Sunflowers carved into hand-tooled leather, petals embossed so carefully they look like they might lift from the surface if you touch them wrong.
Sunflowers burned into pale wood panels, the charred lines soft and smoky, like heat turned into art.
A metal bouquet—welded, shaped, textured—each bloom somehow both delicate and indestructible.
And then I see it.
The centerpiece.
A massive round table, rich dark wood, the surface carved and burned and stained with exquisite detail—one enormous sunflower unfurling across it like a secret finally told out loud.
It’s so stunning my breath stops.
For a second, the room tilts.
Because that’s me.
Not literally.
Not my face.
But I know it’s me.
My impact. My presence. My imprint.
I did that.
Or I inspired it.
And the thought humbles me so hard it almost hurts.
Greyson moves through the gallery like a man being reborn.
Not the hermit lumberjack.
Not the guarded mountain myth.
Tonight he’s himself.
Tall. Broad.
Powerful in a suit that fits him like it was tailored by someone who’s been dreaming about him.
His hair is pushed back neatly, his beard trimmed, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.
But it’s his eyes that make him look different.
They’re not avoiding.
They’re not bracing.
They’re meeting people head-on.
Claiming the attention he used to run from.
I stand apart from him and watch as strangers light up when they speak to him.
How they lean closer.
How they laugh at something he says.
How they look at his hands like they want to shake them just for the privilege.
And for one fleeting second—I feel out of place.
I’m Clara Belle, the blogger who writes honest, messy essays about life and love and finding yourself when the whole world expects you to be someone else.
I’m not a trophy.
I’m not polished like these women in sleek dresses and diamonds that could pay a mortgage.
I’m not the kind of arm candy men bring to openings like this.
I’m just me.
And the insecurity hits fast and sharp, like an old reflex.
Like Manhattan reaching out and trying to put me back in my assigned role.
But then I really look around.
Not at the people.
At the art.
At his work.
At the way the pieces command the room without shouting for it.
At the way they make even the richest, most jaded crowd quiet for a moment.
I see people standing in front of his sunflowers like they’re being moved by something they didn’t expect.
I see a woman with tears in her eyes studying a leather panel.
I see a man in a watch that costs more than my first car run his fingertips lightly along the edge of a carved wood frame like he’s afraid to break the spell.
And I realize—this room is lucky he showed up.
Not the other way around.
Greyson doesn’t need Manhattan’s approval.
Manhattan needs Greyson’s beauty.
The whole world needs it.
My heart swells so hard it feels like my ribs might crack.
He approaches me and takes my hand, exhaling like he only just found his breath.
I squeeze his hand and he glances down at me, that flash of something intimate and private passing between us.
Like we’re the only two people in the room.
“I didn’t know you did this many,” I whisper, nodding toward the sunflower pieces.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Seems I got stuck on a theme.”
I laugh softly, overwhelmed.
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I trail off, because what can I even say?
Thank you for making me into art?
Thank you for letting me matter?
Thank you for seeing me?
Across the room, a woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair is practically haggling with the gallery owner.
“But I must have this,” she insists, voice sharp with entitlement. “Name your price.”
The owner gives a polite smile that says no matter how rich you are, you still don’t get everything you want.
“I’m sorry,” she says smoothly, “but that piece has already sold.”
I glance at the plaque.
A small black sticker sits beside the title.
SOLD.
My breath hitches.
Of course it sold.
Of course it did.
It deserves to be fought over.
But the fact that it’s sold already—before the night even really begins—makes something tender bloom in my chest. And creates an ache because really—I wanted that piece myself.
But still, I am so proud of him.
He made something that shook the world.
And the world answered.
Greyson shifts beside me, his fingers tightening around mine for a second, like he’s reminding himself this is real.
Like he’s reminding me too.
I’m still floating when it happens.
A ripple through the room.
A sudden change in energy—like someone dropped a stone into a calm pond.
Conversations fade.
My skin prickles.
I follow my line of sight toward the entrance.
And my heart—my heart drops so fast it feels like it leaves my body.
Geoffrey.
He’s here. In a suit like he’s dressed for an investor dinner, not an art opening.
His mouth curved into that familiar, practiced smile—charming on the surface, rotten underneath.
And beside him—oh my fuck.
It’s my parents.
My mother in a sleek designer dress, pearls at her throat.
My father, tall and composed.
His expression unreadable in that corporate way that always makes people feel like they’re failing an exam they didn’t study for.
I love them dearly, but I wasn’t expecting them. Not here and not with that asshole.
For a moment, I can’t move.
It’s like the air in my lungs turns to glass.
This is my past walking into my present.
This is obligation coming to collect its debt.
I feel Greyson go still beside me.
He follows my gaze.
His body tightens like a guard dog catching scent.
“Clara?” Greyson murmurs beside me, low and careful.
I don’t answer right away.
Because for one split second, I’m not the woman in the yellow dress at an art opening.
I’m the daughter who left home abruptly.
The fiancée who detonated a wedding.
The girl who stopped answering.
Geoffrey’s eyes find mine across the room.
That smile.
The one he uses in boardrooms and charity galas. Triumphant.
Like he’s here to rescue me from myself.
And then my mother’s gaze lands on me.
On the dress.
On my hand in Greyson’s.
On the way I’m standing close to him—not clinging, not shrinking—just steady.
Her expression shifts.
Surprise first.
Then confusion.
Then something like concern.
Not disapproval.
Concern.
My stomach twists for a completely different reason.
Because I know that look.
It’s the one she gets when she thinks I’m hurting and not telling her.
My father’s eyes move from Geoffrey to me to Greyson and back again.
He doesn’t look angry.
He looks wary.
Protective. But that’s just Dad.
Geoffrey steps forward like he’s narrating a crisis.
“Mr. Belle, Mrs. Belle, this is exactly what I was telling you about,” he says urgently. “She’s been taken in by some scam artist. A nobody lumberjack who’s using her to bankroll this entire—”
“Stop.”
My voice cuts through the space sharper than I expected.
Every head within five feet turns.
I step forward, away from the safety of Greyson’s body for just a second.
“Mom. Dad. I’m fine,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “I’m more than fine.”
My mother’s brows knit together.
“I don’t understand, Clara. You haven’t answered our last few phone calls. And Geoffrey said you’d disappeared. That you’d been manipulated. That you weren’t answering anyone.”
“No, I just wasn’t answering him because he’s an asshole,” I correct.
My father’s gaze sharpens.
Geoffrey sputters. “Clara, don’t be dramatic—”
“I ended our engagement,” I say clearly. “Because he cheated on me.”
The word hangs there.
Ugly.
Unavoidable.
My mother’s lips part slightly.
My father goes very still.
Geoffrey laughs weakly.
“It was a misunderstanding—”
“You were boinking your assistant on my kitchen island,” I say calmly. “That’s not a misunderstanding.”
Silence. The gallery noise fades into a dull hum.
My mother inhales slowly, eyes flicking between us.
“You told us she was having a breakdown,” she says to Geoffrey, her voice cool now.
“I was trying to protect her reputation,” he insists.
“By telling them I was being conned?” I ask, incredulous.
My father’s jaw tightens.
He looks at Greyson then.
Not with contempt.
But with the shrewd assessment that earned him his reputation in the boardroom.
“Well, son, are you conning my daughter? Planning to get to her assets? Her money?” he asks bluntly.
Greyson doesn’t flinch.
“No, sir,” he says evenly. “I’m in love with her. And the only thing I’m planning is to ask her to marry me as soon as this show is over.”
The simplicity of it steals the air from my lungs.
My father studies him for a long moment.
Then he looks at me.
“Clara,” he says carefully, “are you in love with him? Do you want to marry him?”
That’s two questions.
And I only have one answer.
My throat tightens.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “I love him. And when he asks, I’m going to marry him, Daddy.”
“You mean that, Trouble?” Greyson asks me this time, his dark eyes glittering with hope and something more.
“Yes, I mean it. I choose you.”
His eyes go molten.
My mother’s face softens.
“Oh, Clara, really? You love him?” she asks gently.
“Yes, Mom, I love him.”
Geoffrey scoffs. “She’s funding his entire operation. You don’t even know who he is—”
“I know exactly who he is and I love him more every minute,” I reply.
But before Geoffrey can keep digging his own grave, Greyson steps forward and introduces himself properly to my parents.
“Sorry, the name is Greyson Cole, and I am happy to send you whatever information you need for a background check, but first, I need to take care of this,” he says.
And then the punch happens.
Fast.
Clean.
Shocking, but deserved.
Gasps ripple.
Security appears. Quiet, unobtrusive.
Geoffrey is escorted out still mumbling about misunderstandings and reputations and how this isn’t over.
And then—it’s just us.
My parents.
Greyson.
The sunflowers.
My father exhales.
“Well,” he mutters. “That was unfortunate.”
My mother touches my arm gently.
“Clara,” she says quietly, “I hope you understand we were worried. Geoffrey called the second we came back from Sydney, and he told us you’d vanished. That you were in over your head. That someone was taking advantage of you.”
“I’m not a child,” I say softly. “I left him because I deserved better. And I found it.”
My mother nods once.
“Yes,” she says. “You sure did.”
My parents have always supported me, but hearing her say this? Well, her words soothe the longing for parental approval I didn’t know I needed.
But having it? Well, that makes a difference.
My father looks at Greyson again.
“You really love her?” he asks.
Greyson doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes, sir.”
My father’s eyes shift to me.
“And you?”
I look at Greyson.
At the man who flew me here himself.
Who stood between me and humiliation without hesitation.
Who claimed his name and his work tonight without hiding.
“I really love him,” I say.
There it is.
Out loud.
My mother’s lips curve slowly.
“Well,” she says, glancing around at the crowd that’s pretending not to watch, “if we’re going to have a scene in Manhattan, at least it’s in a room full of sunflowers. They’re your favorite, darling.”
I laugh—unexpected and shaky.
My father extends a hand to Greyson.
“Cole, Cole—ah ha, that’s it. I knew your father,” he says. “You’re not like him.”
Greyson shakes his hand firmly.
“I try not to be.”
“Good,” my father replies.
And just like that—my old life doesn’t drag me back.
It adjusts.
It recalibrates.
It sees me.
And I’m not some poor little rich girl who was taken in by a penniless playboy.
I’m my own person and I make my own decisions—I just happen to choose him.
And because I’m just that damn lucky—he chooses me back.
After all of that—all the messy and ugly confrontations of tonight—the magic doesn’t break.
It deepens.