Chapter thirty-five
Violet
So much for being a tough bitch.
Turns out, I’ve morphed into the cliché of a heartbroken girl: full tragic arc, two feet in.
I’ve discovered I’m the kind of bitch who lives on salt-and-vinegar chips and lets Netflix auto-play comfort movies while she rots into the couch.
I haven’t even had the balls to turn on my phone and see what fresh hell has unfolded—between Carter, Liam, PrimeTime+, and the internet, my notifications must be blowing up.
I keep telling myself I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I crunch on another chip and watch as Edward flies Bella through the trees. Again.
Being Vega Wolfe is officially over.
Being Violet feels pretty shaky too, at the moment.
I should probably be thinking about how I’m going to pay my bills.
Eden is there, but that was always the fallback, never the main act.
Outside of photography, I don’t know what I’m good at.
I don’t have ten hidden talents and a backup dream.
There is one thing I love, and right now, it’s been ripped out of my hands and paraded across the tabloids like a cautionary tale.
Cool. Amazing. Love that for me.
Bang. Bang.
I flinch at the heavy knocking on my door. Has a pap found me already?
“GO AWAY!” I yell, not moving.
Bang-bang-bang-bang.
I peel myself off the couch, drop the bag of chips onto the coffee table, and wipe the salt off my fingers.
“FUCK’S SAKE, I SAID GO AWAY!” I shout, stomping toward the door.
I swear to God, if it’s a neighbor, charity, or a Jesus thing, I’m gonna lose my ever-loving shit.
I wrench the door open.
“So you are alive!” Hailee says with a bright smile.
“For someone so tiny, you knock like a six-foot guy,” I mutter. “What are you doing here?”
Hailee pushes her way past me inside. “Came to pull you out of your black hole of self-pity. I saw the pics. Dameon heard the rest from Carter and filled me in.”
She stops in the middle of my living room and wrinkles her nose.
Does it smell in here?
I tug my T-shirt up and sniff myself.
Okay. Fair.
“I tried calling,” she says, walking over to the window and cranking it open. “But your phone’s off.”
She turns back to me, hands on her hips. “Go shower. You can’t go to Eden smelling like a dead rat. I’m on the bar tonight, and I need another pair of hands.”
“Thanks, but no.” I wave a dismissive hand. “I’m busy mourning Carter and my career.”
“I wasn’t asking.” She points—in the wrong direction—to the bathroom. “Move it. You owe me, anyway. You bailed on me at Le Jardin with zero warning, remember?”
I sigh dramatically. “Low blow.”
“Shower, Henderson.”
“Fine,” I grumble, rolling my eyes.
Under the hot spray, I try to come up with a good argument to get back to my salt-and-vinegar chips and sparkly Edward. I give it a solid ten minutes.
Nothing.
I got nothing.
I wash, shave, then wrap myself in a towel—one for my body, one for my hair—and step out into the living room.
Old me would’ve thrown Hailee out of the apartment on her ass and deadbolted the door. New me . . . is too tired to be that much of a bitch. Plus, she’s too sweet to be mean. She’s only trying to help by being a decent friend.
Hailee is on my couch, elbow-deep in my chips, watching my sparkly vampire.
My eyes narrow.
Hailee. Friend, I remind myself. Nice woman. Here to help. Do not stab.
She catches my look and grins. “You were taking too long.”
I snort and head to my room. I pull on soft gray shorts, a clean black tank, do my own makeup so I won’t have to face Eden’s stylists, and blow-dry my hair straight.
When I come back, Hailee clicks the TV off and stands, brushing crumbs off her dress.
“Let’s go, bitch.”
We pile into her car even though Eden is within walking distance. Apparently, tonight, we’re burning fuel and not calories.
On the way, she speed-runs every scrap of Eden gossip I missed while I was away. Ten months of drama crammed into two minutes, her mouth moving at warp speed. It does exactly what she intended—it yanks me out of my own head long enough to breathe without choking on the what-ifs.
Inside, I change into one of the black floor-length gowns, shove my bag into my locker, and stand there with my phone in my hand.
I could turn it on. Get it over and done with. Spend my shift with the sting instead of the dread. Find out exactly how bad it is.
My thumb hovers over the power button.
Nope.
Not yet.
I toss it into my bag and slam the locker shut.
The club is already busy, and the familiarity of it rolls over me. It’s home, in its own fucked-up way. I pause just inside the doorway and let it sink into my skin.
The routine is a comfort. Everyone knows their role, and none of them requires me to explain myself. The men at the bar don’t care about my career, my scandal, or my catastrophic love life. They want a drink and my submission. That, at least, I know how to give.
Things always look worse when you’re standing in the middle of it. Because you can’t see the edges, the way out, or which way is up. You convince yourself there’s no solution because you can’t see past the fire in front of you.
I don’t know where I stand with Carter. I don’t know where I stand with PrimeTime+, either. Both have been stolen from me. But I’ve never been someone who stays down. I’m not about to start now.
I refuse to sacrifice one to have the other, to choose between the man I’ve loved in some form since I was twelve, and the career I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into. I want both. I deserve both, and I’m not settling for anything less.
I move behind the bar with Hailee, fall into step beside her.
I don’t care if it’s bar, tables, or Le Jardin—work is work—but tonight I’m grateful for working the bar.
Being on the floor leaves too much room to think.
Behind the bar, there’s no space for that.
It’s orders, glassware, and muscle memory.
I line up three schooners and pull the tap, watching amber rush in and foam rise. The hiss of carbonation grounds me. Two whiskeys next, neat, obviously. The men who come here either don’t like ice, or like to pretend they’re above it.
Hailee bumps my hip gently, eyes saying what she doesn’t: You okay?
I give her the smallest nod.
Two hours disappear, and this is exactly what I needed. When my hands stay busy, my brain finally shuts the hell up.
Pour, shake, strain, slide. Pay, tap, nod, smile.
My thoughts become muted, and it’s the closest thing to peace I’ve had since LA.
Hailee hums something off-key and cheerful beside me, wiping down the counter between orders, absolutely unbothered by the wall of testosterone pressing in. Only she could drag me out of my cave and drop me in front of a swarm of horny men and somehow make it feel like self-care.
I’m rinsing out a cocktail shaker when the staff door swings open and Chloe steps through, wearing a black goddess gown.
“What are you doing here?” I blink, confused.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Hailee called. Said she was short-staffed so I’m back for the night. Didn’t expect you to be here, though.”
She doesn’t ask how I am. Or mention the photos. She treats me the same.
Thank fuck.
She snags an empty tray and grins. “Oh. My. God. Have you seen the pictures of Cora’s baby?”
I freeze, shaker still under the tap. “Shit. She had the baby?”
Chloe stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Violet. Yes. A whole tiny human. A baby girl. Where have you been?”
I didn’t even ask about Cora. I’ve been wrapped in my own catastrophe, and the rest of life kept moving without me. Guilt pricks under my skin.
“Inside my own ass, apparently,” I say dryly. “How are they doing?”
“They’re good,” Chloe says, then snorts. “James has taken Overprotective Father to a whole new level.”
Despite myself, a laugh crawls up my throat.
“I bet.” I chuckle, shaking my head as I dry the shaker with a cloth.
A ripple moves through the club; it’s subtle but unmistakable. The sound hitches; conversations falter, voices dip, almost as if an invisible cord is yanking everyone’s attention in the same direction.
I don’t have to look.
My body knows before my eyes confirm it.
He’s here.
My vision warps, and I blink rapidly. My heart stutters, and I brace one hand on the bar to keep my knees locked.
Hailee whispers “Here we go” under her breath. But I keep my head down and don’t look up.
I need a second—just one—to brace for the impact. For whatever I’m about to see in his eyes. I’m expecting hurt, fury, coldness. I’ve had them all before in different configurations. I can do this.
The club tells me he’s getting closer. A slow hush rolls outward, sweeping through conversations.
I lift my head.
Carter cuts through the crowd, and people part for him without even thinking. He’s in ripped black jeans and a plain white tee, hands shoved in his pockets.
His gaze locks on mine.
All I see is the man who whispered things I never thought I’d hear from him. And the boy who has been mine in a thousand ways, long before either of us had the guts to claim one another. All of that, layered together in one look.
I step out from behind the bar before I’ve decided to move. Gravity has tilted toward him, and resisting would be pointless.
He meets me halfway, our paths drawn together.
Only then do I register the guys behind him. James. Dameon. Zac. All hanging back, expressions somewhere between pride and amusement.
I snap my head toward Hailee and Chloe.
Seriously?
Hailee claps her hands, a tiny squeal squeaking out before Chloe smacks her with a bar towel and fails spectacularly at hiding her grin.
They all knew.
Up close, I see a bruise faintly yellowing along Carter’s cheekbone. His eyes, though, are bright, clear, and locked on me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. The guilt that’s been percolating in my gut since LA finally spills over. “I don’t know how they—”
“I know it wasn’t you,” he says.
I blink. Once. Twice. “What?”
“Liam dug into it,” he says, stepping closer. “Cindy stole the pictures from your laptop.”
My left eye twitches, a tic I can’t control.
“Cindy. Fucking. Winters.”
Rage detonates at the speed of light, and my hands ball into fists at my sides. All I can see is her smug smirk and that magazine cover. My knuckles itch to meet her face.
I suck in a breath.
Then another.
Then one more, deeper.
I’m not giving her the satisfaction of ruining another second of my life. She’s not getting a front-row seat to my rage, heartbreak, or my love story. She tried to burn me down; she doesn’t get to live in the ashes.
My anger simmers instead of spilling. I’ll aim it somewhere useful later.
“Karma’s a bitch,” he states, flat and fatal. “My lawyers are going to tear her apart.”
I inhale shakily.
“I couldn’t come earlier,” he continues, softer now. “Not until I fixed things with PrimeTime+. I know what being Vega Wolfe means to you. I know what your work means.”
My stomach knots. “Carter . . .”
“You’re off suspension, Vi.” His mouth quirks. “They’ve cleared you. Full public statement hits tomorrow. Your name’s clean.”
Everything from the waist down goes soft; my balance wobbles.
“And if you’d turned your fucking phone on,” he adds, narrowing his eyes, “you would’ve known two days ago.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Shut up.”
“And that brings me to the real reason why I came.”
My brows pull together. “There’s more?”
“Oh, there’s more.” A glint sparks in his eyes.
He pulls his hand out of his pocket, fingers tight around something small and black.
Before I can see what it is, he drops down on one knee.
My heart stops.
The entire club inhales with me.
He opens the small black bag—cheap and crinkled, absolutely not fancy—and pulls out . . .
A phone charger.
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
Someone behind us snorts.
He holds it up between two fingers.
“This,” he declares loudly, “is so you never have an excuse not to answer my calls again. I want you to take my calls, Vi. And I want to take yours. Now. Tomorrow. Fifty years from now.”
A smile spreads wide across my face.
“For a second there,” I say, grabbing the charger, “I thought you were going to propose.”
His lips curve into a lethal smile. “Funny you should say that.”
He reaches into his back pocket this time.
And holds out a red Cartier box in the center of his palm.
He flips the lid open—and inside is a fuck-off gigantic coffin-cut, black-diamond ring.
Gothic and insanely beautiful, it could have crawled straight out of my subconscious. There’s nothing sweet about it.
It’s perfect.
“Are you serious?” I gasp.
“Deadly. Can’t live without you. Figured it was fitting.”
I’m not even aware of lowering myself until my knees hit the carpet, and my hands come up to cradle his gorgeous face. Our foreheads touch, breath mixing, the noise of the club distorting into static around us. The charger is long forgotten on the ground next to me.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I told you there was no going back. And I meant it. You’re it for me, Vi. I’m head-over-heels fucked for you.”
My eyes sting.
I don’t do tears.
But my eyes are burning, and I have no idea how to stop them. I blink furiously, because there’s no way I’m ugly-crying in Eden, of all places.
“I love you,” I say back, sniffling as he slides the ring onto my finger. It sits there like it’s always belonged.
His grin is blinding.
The club erupts. Clapping, whistling, champagne popping, someone yelling, “About fucking time!” at a decibel level that could rupture eardrums.
James, Zac, and Dameon swarm him from behind, shoving him from above, like proud, drunk brothers. I look over my shoulder; Hailee is openly crying, while Chloe passes her a bar napkin.
Carter dips his head and kisses me—slow at first, then deepening until it becomes filthy. I taste mint and smoke . . .
I’m home.
When we break apart, we’re both breathless and beaming.
“I want you so badly right now,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Free use, remember?” I say, wiggling my ring finger between us with a small, wicked grin.
His eyes darken. “Fuck, Storm. You’re perfect.”
“Let’s give everyone a show.” I know it’s against Eden rules, but security will have to pry me off his dick, because there’s no way in hell I’m denying myself any longer.
He pushes me down, hauls my dress up, hooks my knee over his arm, and gets his jeans undone. In the next breath, he thrusts inside me, the ridges of his piercings grazing my soft channel. I close my eyes, head tipped back, as a broken sound leaves my throat.
Pleasure climbs fast, his hands holding me exactly where he wants me, my body trembling on the brink while laughter and music float around us.
Life started out shit; no one’s rewriting that part. But the middle of my story is pretty fucking great. My name’s been cleared, my career has been saved, the love of my life is buried deep, exactly where I want him, and my anger finally has nothing left to burn.
I got everything I thought I’d lost back. Plus, a future I dared to reach for—there’s not a single piece of that I’m willing to give up.