Chapter 12
The mall was a kaleidoscope of holiday excess, strings of lights draped from every railing, garlands wound tight around polished columns, the air thick with cinnamon, pine, and sugar.
Christmas carols floated overhead, cheerful, and relentless, stitched together with the murmur of shoppers dragging glossy bags behind them like trophies.
It should have felt festive.
Instead, it felt static.
All that noise, all that color, and still my mind kept circling back to one thing—one voice.
I don’t know how to fix how I feel.
Creed’s words hadn’t faded with time. They had settled. Embedded themselves somewhere just beneath my ribs, where they pulsed every time I slowed down long enough to breathe.
“Peyton.”
Dixie’s hand landed on my shoulder, firm, grounding, dragging me back into my body. Her blue eyes were sharp, assessing—the look she reserved for moments when she knew I was lying to myself.
“You’ve been quiet for twenty minutes,” she said. “That’s not festive silence. That’s distraction.”
I forced a smile, the kind that passed in boardrooms and cocktail hours. “I’m just tired.”
She arched a brow, unimpressed. “Try again.”
She’d known me too long for deflection. Too well for polite lies.
“What’s going on with you and Creed?”
We stopped near the fountain, the massive Christmas tree towering behind it, lights reflecting in the water like fractured stars. I tightened my grip on the shopping bags, the paper edges biting into my palms, as if pain might anchor me.
I exhaled slowly and sank onto the marble bench.
“Same pattern,” I said. “Different setting.”
Dixie waited. She always did. Let the quiet stretch until I filled it myself.
“And,” I added, lower, “I told him I loved him. Again.”
Her entire body stilled. “And?”
I nodded, throat tight. “He didn’t argue. Didn’t redirect. He just... looked at me. Like I’d said something he couldn’t unhear. And then he walked away.” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Which seems to be his preferred response when things get real.”
Dixie reached for my hand, her grip firm, grounding. “Oh, Peyton.”
“I don’t know why I keep hoping that naming it will change anything,” I said, staring at the glittering water. “Like if I’m honest enough, patient enough, he’ll finally meet me where I am.”
“And finally make a decision,” she said quietly.
I nodded.
Her expression sharpened—not unkind, but clear. “That man isn’t confused about you,” Dixie said. “He’s conflicted about what you require.”
I looked at her.
“He knows what he feels,” she continued. “What he doesn’t know is whether he’s willing to show up for it.”
Something in my chest loosened. Or maybe it tightened into resolve.
“I’m tired,” I admitted. “Tired of being available while he decides if he’s ready. If he wants me, he has to choose me. Out loud. On purpose. I’m done chasing.”
Her lips curved, slow and approving. “Good. Because you were never meant to chase anyone.”
She always knew how to hold me together, even when I felt like I was unraveling. “Thanks,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dixie shrugged, but her eyes softened. “That’s what I’m here for.” Then she nudged me playfully. “Now, let’s get back to business.”
We finished shopping, laughter creeping back in where it could. It wasn’t joy—not fully—but it was movement. Forward.
Later, in the quiet of my garage, I slipped the bags into their hiding place among storage bins and tangled lights, careful not to leave evidence. The twins would sniff out their presents like bloodhounds if I weren’t careful.
I had just closed the bin when my phone buzzed.
My heart stuttered before my brain could catch up.
Creed.
I stared at his name longer than I should have. Long enough to remember silence. Long enough to remember how it felt to be shut out.
Finally, I answered. “Yes?”
“Hello, Peyton.”
His voice slid through me, smooth and measured, familiar in a way that still unsettled me.
“I’d like you to join me for dinner tonight.”
I frowned. “Dinner?”
“Yes,” he said. A pause. Intentional. “On my yacht.”
My breath caught.
The yacht wasn’t casual. It wasn’t neutral ground. It was territory—controlled, private, deliberate.
I’d only ever seen it in glossy magazine spreads—a floating masterpiece, sleek and untouchable, as private as his penthouse. The fact that he wanted me there...
It meant something.
I hesitated.
Days of silence. Weeks of uncertainty. And now this?
“I’d like that,” I said carefully.
Another pause.
“Good,” he murmured. “A car will pick you up at seven.”
The call ended before I could ask anything else.
I stared at my phone, the quiet suddenly too loud.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t an apology.
It wasn’t closure.
It was an invitation.
I rushed inside the house, my pulse thrumming as I hit Dixie’s number, barely containing the storm of anticipation building inside me.
“Peyton!” she squealed the second I told her. “Are you kidding me? His yacht? That’s not just dinner—that’s a declaration.”
“Or a trap.” My voice wavered despite my best attempt at control. “What if he’s just playing games again?”
Dixie gripped my hands, eyes sharp, unyielding. “No.” She shook her head. “This is Creed’s way of showing you he’s ready to talk. And you, my dear, need to make sure you look so good he forgets how to be stubborn.”
The words settled something inside me, but they didn’t erase the anxiety.
By the time his driver pulled onto the driveway, I was wound tight with nerves and intention.
Aunt Ruth and the twins had insisted on the hunter-green dress, claiming it was dangerous in the way only women who loved me could mean.
The fabric skimmed my curves, elegant but unapologetic.
My hair fell in soft waves, my lips painted darker than usual—not seduction, exactly. Armor.
As I slid into the backseat, the door closing with a quiet finality, the weight of the night pressed in. Not anticipation alone, but something sharper. Something edged.
The drive passed in silence. The city blurred past the window in streaks of gold and white, reflections bending and breaking against the glass. I watched them without really seeing them, my thoughts circling one question I refused to ask out loud.
Why now?
When the car finally slowed, the answer didn’t come.
The marina stretched before me, black water smooth as polished stone, the December air sharp with salt and cold. And there—moored apart from the others, lights low and deliberate—was his yacht. Not ostentatious but intentional. Every line clean. Controlled.
But I barely registered it.
Because Creed was already waiting.
He stood at the edge of the gangplank, coat buttoned, collar turned against the wind, hands tucked into his pockets like he was holding something in place. Still. Watchful. The city framed him in light, but he didn’t belong to it. He never had.
My breath caught despite myself.
He looked like command distilled—no hurry, no excess. Just presence. The kind that bent a room without touching it.
His gray eyes found mine instantly. And in that moment, I knew this wasn’t dinner. This was a reckoning.
The hush of the James River wrapped around us as my heels tapped softly against the deck. I didn’t rush. I didn’t hesitate. I refused to give him either.
He didn’t move when I reached him. Didn’t offer his hand. Didn’t close the distance.
“Peyton.”
My name, low and even. No apology. No softness. Just acknowledgment.
“Sir.”
It slipped out before I could temper it—too intimate for how far apart we still were.
Something flickered in his gaze. Recognition. Not satisfaction. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the open cabin doors.
“Come inside. It’s warmer.”
Inside, the yacht was hushed and immaculate—mahogany and cream, light cast low and deliberate. Luxury without excess. But what made my chest tighten wasn’t the space. It was how contained it felt.
One table. One window. One line of sight.
I swallowed. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s peaceful,” Creed said, his voice measured, his expression unreadable as he removed his coat and draped it neatly over the back of a chair.
The sight of him—broad shoulders, sharp lines of his charcoal-gray shirt molding to his body, the dark slacks that moved with lethal precision—sent a pulse of heat through me. I hated that he still did this to me.
“I don’t bring many people here,” he said.
“I believe that,” I replied.
His mouth twitched. It was almost a smile. Almost.
He helped me out of my coat, his fingers brushing my shoulder just long enough to register, not linger. The restraint was louder than any touch.
“You look...” He paused, eyes tracking me carefully. “...beautiful.”
I inclined my head. “Thank you.”
No flirtation. No deflection. Just acceptance.
“Please sit,” he said, gesturing toward the table.
I did—slowly, deliberately—aware of how tightly coiled I still felt.
He poured the wine himself, deep red catching the light, then took the seat across from me.
Distance. Chosen. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The water lapped gently against the hull, steady and indifferent, like the world hadn’t noticed the fault line opening between us.
“Why did you invite me here?” I asked finally. “You’ve spent weeks disappearing, and now this.” I gestured vaguely around us—the table, the glass, the quiet luxury. “This feels deliberate.”
Creed leaned back in his chair, studying me the way he did when a decision carried consequences. Not defensively. As if he were weighing cost instead of comfort.
“I needed distance,” he said. “Not from you. From the resistance I create when I don’t want to look at something directly.”
“And?” I pressed.
His jaw flexed, the muscle working like he was grinding something down internally. “And I didn’t like the version of myself that pretended you were optional.”
That landed, but it wasn’t surrender. It was an admission stripped of promise.