That night, as we lie in my bed, I feel the familiar war between my heart and my head. Preston’s sabotage has cracked something open — not doubt in Wyatt, but doubt in myself. In my judgment. Because I chose Preston, too, once. What if I’m making the same mistake again?
I know it’s not rational. I know Wyatt has proven himself over and over. But the scars run deep.
“What are you thinking?” Wyatt murmurs against my hair.
“That I hate that Preston can still get in my head like this,” I whisper. “That I hate doubting myself when I finally thought I’d figured out how to trust again.”
His arms tighten around me. “You’re allowed to be scared. He hurt you badly, and today he tried to hurt you again. It makes sense that old fears would resurface.”
“But it’s not fair to you.”
“Love isn’t about fair. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I’ll keep proving it to you, Snow. However many times you need.”
And that — that patient understanding — finally unlocks something in my head and my heart.
Because he has proven it. When the photos from St. Lucia broke my trust, he showed me the truth through his art. When I needed space, he gave it without resentment. When Preston attacked my business, Wyatt showed up within an hour, ready to fight. When I was spiraling, he just held me and reminded me who I am.
This is what love looks like. Not perfect. Not fearless. But consistent. Patient. Real.
Preston conditioned me to believe love meant control. But Wyatt has spent months showing me something different. He supports my independence. Celebrates my strength. Fights for my dreams without making me feel indebted.
He really is the hero from every romance book.
Chapter 28
Wyatt
Iwake up to an empty bed and the sound of Snow humming in the kitchen. I smile before I even open my eyes — she only hums when she's happy, a soft, unconscious melody that means her mind is at peace.
I find her at the stove, making pancakes, wearing one of my t-shirts and her pajama shorts. Her hair is piled in a messy knot on top of her head, and she's completely relaxed in a way that still takes my breath away. But it's more than that today — there's a lightness to her movements, an ease that wasn't there before.
"Morning," I say, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind.
She leans back into me. "Morning. Hungry?"
"Starving."
We fall into our comfortable routine — her cooking, me setting the table, easy conversation about our day. Normal, domestic, perfect.
Halfway through breakfast, her phone buzzes. She glances at it, rolls her eyes, and sets it face down.
"Nico?" I ask.
"Forwarding me some article about Preston launching an eco-business." She takes a bite of pancake. "Court date's in two weeks. He's just trying to rattle me."
I wait for the tension, the anxiety. But she just reaches for the maple syrup, completely unbothered.
"And?" I prompt.
"And I'm not wasting headspace on it." She meets my eyes, calm and certain. "He can do whatever he wants. It doesn't change anything."
The certainty in her voice makes my chest tight with pride. A few months ago, anything Preston-related would have sent her spiraling. Now she's just... handling it.
"I'm proud of you," I say.
She smiles and stands, moving around the table to sit in my lap. "I love you."
"I love you too. So damn much."
