15. Heather
Heather
Six Months Later
The ballroom glitters, the same chandeliers, the same crowd, the same golden light spilling across the same polished floor. The Teagues Foundation gala, come full circle.
But everything is different now.
I’m wearing green again, not the emerald Kirk picked, but something deeper, richer, a color I chose because I liked how it looked against my skin. Grayson is beside me in black, his hand warm at my back, and we move through the room like we belong here.
Because we do.
“Champagne?” he asks.
“Not yet. I want to remember this part.”
He smiles - a real smile, the kind he didn’t show anyone for years. “What part?”
“The part where I’m actually happy at one of these things.”
We drift through the crowd, and people nod at us now. Not with pity. Not with judgment. Just... acknowledgment. The scandal has faded, replaced by newer dramas, more interesting affairs. We’re old news.
It’s the best feeling in the world.
Kirk crosses the floor.
He looks different, thinner, grayer, something around his eyes that suggests he hasn’t slept well in months. Penelope isn’t with him; I heard they came separately, aren’t speaking, might not even be living in the same house.
He stops a few feet away.
“Heather.” He shifts his weight, hands loose at his sides.
“Kirk.” I keep my chin level.
We stand there, two people who used to share a life, now strangers in a room full of people who’ve stopped caring about our story.
“I wanted to say-” He swallows. “I’m sorry.” His gaze drops to the floor between us.
I wait.
“Not the way I said it before. Not because I want something or I’m trying to-” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve seen a thousand times. “I’m just sorry. For all of it. For the lies. For the cowardice. For not being honest with you when you deserved honesty.”
I search his face for manipulation, for angles, for the calculation I’ve learned to expect.
I find nothing but exhaustion.
“I believe you.” I let my shoulders ease.
“You do?” His eyes lift, startled.
“I believe you’re sorry.” I hold his gaze. “But I don’t want you back. I don’t even want to be a person who’d want you back.”
He nods, slowly, his throat working.
“I know.” He looks down again.
“I forgive you, Kirk.” The words come easier than I expected. “Not for you - for me. I’m tired of carrying it around.” I unclench a fist I didn’t know I was holding.
“Thank you.” He dips his head once.
He walks away without arguing. Without pushing. Without any of the dramatics I’ve grown to expect.
It’s the most dignity he’s shown in months.
Penelope is here too.
She’s standing near the windows, the baby on her hip - a daughter, I heard, born two months ago - and Kirk is a careful arm’s length away. They’re not touching. Aren’t even looking at each other.
Anyone watching can read it.
The affair that ran on secrecy and adrenaline has flattened into two people who can’t stop checking each other’s phones. Penelope’s eyes track every woman Kirk greets. Kirk flinches every time Penelope’s phone lights up.
They wear the cost of it on their faces, trust burned down to ash, neither of them sure the other isn’t doing exactly what they did.
They cut out early, whispering hard at each other, the baby fussing between them.
I watch them go.
Grayson’s arm settles around my waist.
“What are you thinking?” He pulls me in against his side.
“That I used to think they won. That they got away clean.” I lean into him.
“And now?” He tips his head toward mine.
“Now I think the worst thing that could’ve happened to either of them was getting exactly what they wanted.” I turn to face him.
He draws me onto the dance floor.
The orchestra is playing something slow, something romantic, something that would have made me roll my eyes a year ago. Now I let Grayson take my hand, let him pull me close, let myself sink into the warmth of him.
“Do you remember the lake house?” I ask.
His hand stills on my back. “I try not to. Why?”
“We stood on that porch and watched them pose against the sunset. You and me. The quiet ones they left behind.” I tip my head back to look at him. “I thought that was just who I was. The one in the corner. The one who didn’t quite fit anywhere.”
“You weren’t in the corner.” His voice goes low. “You were the only thing in the room I could see.”
“You never said a word.”
“I didn’t have the right.” His jaw tightens, then eases.
“Six years I stood three feet from you at these things and counted the ways I wasn’t allowed to want you.
And now I get to do this.” He turns us, slow, deliberate, his hand splaying warm against my spine.
“In the same room. Under the same lights. In front of all the same people.”
“And they’re not looking at us with pity.”
“They’re not looking at us at all.” He almost smiles. “Took me months to realize that’s what winning feels like. Nobody watching. Just you.”
Something in my chest - the part that spent a decade braced for the next disappointment - finally goes quiet.
“I used to think the worst thing that ever happened to me was that terrace,” I say. “Finding them. Losing everything in one night.”
“And now?”
“Now I think it’s the best thing I never chose.” I press closer, my cheek against his lapel, his heartbeat steady under my ear. “It burned the whole thing down. And you were standing in the ashes, holding two coffees, stirred counterclockwise.”
He laughs - quiet, surprised, the realest sound I’ve ever gotten out of him - and pulls me in until there’s no space left between us at all.
His hand presses low on my back, possessive in a way that pulls the air out of me.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“I’m allowed.” His thumb strokes my spine through the silk. “You’re mine now. I can stare as much as I want.”
***
The word mine sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
“Is that how this works?” I curl my fingers into his lapel.
“That’s how this works.” He flattens his hand against my lower back.
He spins me, pulls me back in, closer than before. His thigh presses between mine as we move, subtle enough that no one watching would notice, deliberate enough that I absolutely do.
“I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this dress for the last three hours,” he says against my ear.
“That’s very patient of you.” I tilt my head to give him more room.
“I’m a patient man.” His lips brush my temple. “When it’s worth it.”
I shiver.
Someone watching might feel like they’re intruding. Good.
“I have a question,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Mm?” I slide my hand up to his shoulder.
“The hotel. Our first night.” His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing my hip. “I keep thinking about that window.”
Heat climbs my neck. “Grayson. We’re in public.” I press closer despite myself.
“I’m aware.” His voice drops. “I’m just saying. The suite is booked. In case you were wondering.” He tightens his arm around me.
I laugh - bright and real - and pull back to look at him. His eyes are dark with promise. With want. With something that looks a lot like forever.
“Is this your idea of romance?” I arch a brow at him.
“This is my idea of plans.” He doesn’t crack a smile.
I kiss him, soft and promising, not caring who sees.
“Then take me home.” I fist my hand in his jacket.
“Not home.” His eyes are dark with promise. “The suite.” He catches my hand and laces our fingers.
We step out into the night, but instead of heading toward the parking garage, he steers me toward the elevator.
The moment the doors close behind us, his composure cracks.
We’re in public, some responsible part of my brain notes. Anyone could be watching. The cameras are recording. This is-
The thought dies the moment his mouth finds mine.
He presses me against the wall, his hands sliding beneath my coat to find the silk of my dress.
“Three hours,” he murmurs against my lips. “Three hours of watching you smile at other people.” He fists the silk at my hip.
“Jealous?” I drag my fingers into his hair.
“Impatient.” His teeth catch my earlobe. “There’s a difference.” He presses his hips into mine.
The elevator chimes. We separate just as an older couple steps on, nodding politely.
Grayson’s hand finds mine, squeezing once. A promise.
We ride in silence. The couple exits two floors before ours.
The moment the doors close again, he’s on me.
Somehow we make it to the room. Somehow the key card works. Somehow we stumble inside without breaking contact.
The suite is beautiful - floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spread beneath us like a tapestry of light - but I barely register it.
“The window,” he says, walking me backward toward the glass. “I told you I keep thinking about that window.” He plants a hand on the cold pane beside my head.
“We’re very high up.” I glance over my shoulder at the drop.
“We’re very private.” His hands find my zipper. “No one can see.” He drags it down slow.
The dress slides from my shoulders and pools at my feet.
I stand there in nothing but black lace, and I watch his face change. Watch his eyes go dark, his jaw tighten, his hands clench at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from touching me.
“Christ.” The word comes out hoarse. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He drags a hand down his own face.
“Show me.” I step into him.
He crosses the distance between us and lifts me in one motion, my back pressing against the cold glass, my legs wrapping around his waist. The contrast - his heat against my front, the window’s chill against my back - makes me gasp.
“Someone could see,” I say, but I don’t mean it. We’re forty floors up. No one can see anything but city lights.
“Let them.” He’s already pushing aside the lace, finding me wet and ready. “Let the whole world watch. I don’t care.”
This is different from the first time.
The first time was desperate, overwhelming, two people crashing together after weeks of denial. This is... deliberate. Confident. He knows my body now, knows exactly where to touch, exactly how hard, exactly what rhythm makes me unravel.
And I know his.
I know that he likes it when I bite his shoulder. That his breath catches when I drag my nails down his spine. That saying his name in a certain tone - low, commanding, now - makes him lose whatever control he’s been holding onto.
“Grayson.”
His hips snap forward, and I cry out against the glass.
“Again,” he growls.
“Grayson.”
He sets a punishing pace, each thrust pressing me harder against the window, the city wheeling beneath us like something from a dream.
I can see our reflection in the glass - fragmented, ghostly - and there’s something unbearably erotic about watching us from the outside.
Watching his hands grip my thighs. Watching my head fall back.
Watching two people who look nothing like victims.
“I love you.” He says it against my throat, between kisses, between thrusts. “I’ll say it in every room in this city until you’re sick of hearing it.”
“I’ll never be sick of hearing it.” I pull his face to mine, kiss him deep and filthy. “Say it again.”
He shifts the angle, and suddenly I’m right there - right on the edge-
“Come for me.” His voice is ragged. “Come for me, and let the whole city hear it.”
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me with a force that makes my vision white out, my body clenching around him, his name on my lips like something holy. He follows seconds later, his whole body shuddering, his forehead pressed to mine.
We stay like that for a long moment, pressed against the glass, the city glittering forty floors below us.
This time there are no tears. Just pleasure, and trust, and the bone-deep certainty that I’ve finally found where I belong.
After, tangled in hotel sheets, he traces the lines of my face like he’s memorizing them.
“I love you.” Simple. Certain. “I’ve said it now in a hotel, in this suite, and I’ll say it at the altar if you let me. I love you.”
“I know.” I pull him closer. “I love you too.”
“Good.” He rolls me beneath him, his weight settling over me, familiar and right. “Because I’m planning to spend a very long time making sure you never doubt it.”
“Define very long.”
“Forever.” He kisses my throat. “If you’ll have me.”
“I’ll have you.”
The terrace where I found them months ago hangs dark and empty somewhere below us.
I don’t think about it once.
I’m too busy building something new.
THE END