“I don’t want easy.” His voice crackles. “I want you.”
God.
Heat floods my cheeks. I look down at my folder because if I keep looking at him I’m going to do something stupid like climb across his desk.
“There’s one more thing,” I manage.
I pull out the second document. The letter I wrote at three AM on Sunday, when I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop thinking about the six other women who shared my nightmare.
“I want to send this to the other victims. Through your lawyers so it’s official.” I slide it across the desk. “I’m thanking them for their bravery. Apologizing that my silence enabled him to continue. Committing to using whatever platform I have now to support Title IX reform.”
He reads it. When he looks up, his eyes are wet with unshed tears.
“I’m taking back my narrative,” I manage. “Not hiding from it anymore.”
“I know.” His voice is soft. “I’m so proud of you.”
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
I blink rapidly and focus on gathering my papers. “So. Press release. Official announcement. My new position.”
He stands, comes around the desk, and stops just close enough that I can smell him. I just look up at him. At this man whose mouth I’ve kissed a hundred times. At this man who broke my trust and earned it back in the same breath.
His hand comes up to cup my jaw. “I love you, Briana Sutton Dawson.”
I lean into his palm. “I love you, too, Nicolò Dante Rossi.”
He kisses me. Doesn’t bother setting the smart glass to opaque.
And I don’t care anymore, either.
Epilogue
Bree
Six Months Later...
The zipper on my custom gown is stuck.
Figures.
I’m standing in the bathroom of our luxury hotel suite in Reykjavik, which still feels surreal even after two days here. I’m wrestling with three thousand dollars worth of emerald silk like it owes me money.
The gala starts in forty-five minutes. I’m giving the keynote speech.
And my zipper has apparently chosen defiance.
This is fine.
You’re the Executive Director of a major foundation.
You’ve faced down hostile board members and corporate sabotage.
You can handle a teeny tiny zipper.
I cannot handle the zipper.
“Need help?”
