Chapter 39
Greyson
After the last guest drifts out and the gallery lights dim to something softer, something private, I finally exhale.
Clara’s parents surprised the hell out of me.
Not because they were angry.
Because they weren’t.
Because after the confrontation, after Geoffrey was escorted out like yesterday’s trash, we actually talked.
Civilly.
Honestly.
And when I asked Clara to marry me again—right this time, beside the sunflower table, with Manhattan glittering through the glass—she said yes.
My girl said yes.
The ring that’s been burning a hole in my pocket for days now sits perfectly on her finger, catching the light every time she moves her hand.
We walk her parents out, promises made.
“We expect an invitation,” her mother says with a smile that’s far warmer than I anticipated.
“You’ll have one,” I answer.
Clara squeezes my hand.
Wedding.
The word feels huge.
Right.
We ride back to the hotel in something like stunned happiness.
The city blurs by, but all I can see is her.
My fiancée.
Jesus.
When the elevator glides open into the penthouse and the doors seal shut behind us, it feels like the world drops away.
Room service has done exactly what I asked.
The dining table is set with late-night supper—charcuterie, warm bread, olives, roasted vegetables, her favorite cheeses.
And in the center?
An enormous bowl of chocolate mousse topped with fresh raspberries and clouds of whipped cream.
“You really went all out,” she says softly.
“For my future wife?” I reply. “Yeah. I did.”
She blushes.
Even after everything tonight.
Even after cameras and confrontation and a public proposal.
She’s still that same woman who bites her lip when she’s overwhelmed.
“You know I love this gown,” I tell her as the elevator doors finish locking and the suite settles into quiet.
“Yeah?” she asks, backing away slowly, eyes bright and mischievous.
I nod.
I peel off my jacket first, tossing it onto the back of a chair.
Then the tie.
Then I unbutton my shirt slowly, deliberately, watching her watch me.
“I do,” I say again.
Her breath shifts.
The energy between us changes.
Not frantic.
Not desperate.
But heavy.
Intentional.
“But,” I murmur, stepping closer, “I need you to take that off, Baby.”
She laughs softly, but there’s heat in it.
“You just said you loved it.”
“I do,” I agree. “And I want to remember exactly how it looked when I peel it off you.”
She doesn’t retreat anymore.
She steps forward.
Close enough that the yellow fabric brushes against my bare chest.
“You’re very sure of yourself for a man who almost forgot to propose before announcing your intentions to marry me to my own father,” she teases.
I grin.
“I adapted.”
Her fingers slide up my torso, slow and curious.
“And what happens now, Mr. Cole?”
I cup her jaw gently, thumb brushing over the curve of her mouth.
“Now,” I say quietly, “we celebrate.”
She lifts her hand between us, admiring the ring again.
“You know,” she says softly, “this is the part where most women say they’ve dreamed about this their whole lives.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I dreamed about being chosen,” she says honestly. “But not like a trophy. Like a partner.”
I press my forehead to hers.
“That’s what this is,” I tell her. “You and me. Choosing each other.”
The gown slides down her shoulders slowly under my hands, silk whispering against skin.
Not rushed.
Reverent.
But my gaze? It’s earnest. Hungry.
I want her so damn badly.
She laughs—and it’s like bells—then she’s helping me with the buttons I missed in my haste, her fingers brushing my chest like she’s memorizing it.
The city glows beyond the windows.
The mousse waits.
The future waits.
But right now—it’s just us.
Her gown pooling at her feet.
My shirt somewhere on the floor.
The yellow diamond ring on her finger glints under the penthouse lights.
And the quiet, steady certainty that we are exactly where we’re meant to be.
Together.