Chapter Seventeen
876 Words
The days after the press conference blurred together.
Liam surrendered to the authorities. Isabel returned to Milan. The press moved on to the next scandal, as they always do. And somehow, impossibly, life became... quiet.
Not the bad quiet. The healing kind.
I woke up each morning in Adrian's bed—our bed now, though we'd never officially said it—with Pickles curled at my feet and the city spread out below like a promise. Adrian made breakfast. Burnt pancakes. Bad coffee. Perfect.
"We should talk about the contract," he said one morning.
I was mid-bite. Stopped. "Do we have to?"
"It expires in two weeks."
"I know."
"So?"
I set down my fork. Looked at him. He was wearing that gray sweater with the hole in the cuff, hair still wet from the shower, looking like a man who'd rather be anywhere else than having this conversation.
"So what?"
"So are you staying?"
The question hung in the air. Simple. Terrifying.
"What if I say yes?"
"Then you stay."
"What if I say no?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Then I convince you to change your mind."
I laughed. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
My mother was discharged from the facility on a Tuesday.
Not cured—kidney disease doesn't work that way—but stable. Healthy enough to go home. Healthy enough to live in a small apartment Adrian had arranged near the park, with a ramp for her wheelchair and a garden she could see from the window.
"You did all this?" she asked Adrian, looking around the apartment.
"I made some calls."
"You made some calls." She shook her head. "Young man, I've been alive long enough to know that 'made some calls' means 'spent a small fortune.'"
Adrian's ears turned pink. "I wanted you to be comfortable."
My mother looked at him. Then at me. Then back at him.
"You love her?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you're not going to hurt her?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then you can spend your fortune on me anytime."
Adrian laughed—a real laugh, surprised and relieved and warm. He hugged her. My mother, who didn't like being touched by anyone except me and her nurses, hugged him back.
I stood in the doorway, watching, and felt something loosen in my chest.
Maybe this could work.
Maybe we could be a family.
---
Ms. Vane quit.
Not dramatically. Not with a scene. Just a quiet conversation in Adrian's office, a folder of transition notes, and a handshake.
"I've been here seven years," she said. "It's time."
"What will you do?" Adrian asked.
She almost smiled. "Maybe I'll write a book."
"About what?"
"About a billionaire who fell in love with a courier and didn't even know it until it was too late."
Adrian stared at her. "You knew?"
"Everyone knew." She looked at me. "Take care of him. He's more fragile than he looks."
And then she was gone.
---
That night, Adrian was quiet.
We sat on the balcony, watching the city lights. Pickles was asleep on his lap—Ms. Vane had been right about that too. The cat adored him.
"You're sad," I said.
"I'm not sad. I'm... adjusting."
"To what?"
"To the idea that people leave. And sometimes, that's okay."
I leaned my head on his shoulder. "Ms. Vane isn't leaving because she doesn't care. She's leaving because she does."
"I know."
"That makes it harder?"
"That makes it harder."
We sat in silence. The wind picked up. Adrian pulled me closer.
"Ivy."
"Yeah?"
"I have a question."
My heart started pounding. "Okay."
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small box. Black velvet. Small enough to fit in his palm.
My breath caught.
"Adrian—"
"I know the contract isn't up yet. I know we said six weeks. I know this is fast and probably stupid and definitely not the way I planned it."
He opened the box.
The ring was different from the first one. Smaller. Simpler. A single diamond on a gold band. No sapphires. No family history. Just... clean.
"This one is just yours," he said. "No grandmothers. No obligations. Just me, asking you a question."
He took the ring out of the box. Held it between his fingers.
"Ivy Cole. Will you marry me? For real this time. No contract. No fine print. Just us."
The city glittered below. Pickles purred. And somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded.
I looked at the ring. At his face. At the man who'd gone from cold billionaire to burnt-pancake boyfriend in six short weeks.
"Yes," I said.
Adrian blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes, you i***t. Yes."
He laughed—loud and surprised and so full of joy it made my chest ache. He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
"Of course it fits," he said. "I measured your finger while you were sleeping."
"You measured my finger?"
"I wanted to be sure."
I kissed him. On the balcony, with the city below and the stars above and Pickles meowing at our feet.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too."
"So what happens now?"
Adrian smiled. That real smile. The one he kept just for me.
"Now, we live."
- Writer
