"Worth it," I reply, meaning it completely.
He smiles—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his entire face—and suddenly I'm laughing, giddy with happiness and the absurdity of this moment: Christian Hawthorne making a rom-com worthy declaration in my small-town Christmas shop, surrounded by strangers who are now invested in our happily-ever-after.
And as he pulls me gently into his arms, as the applause continues around us, as he lowers his lips to mine in a kiss that promises everything, I realize that perhaps happily-ever-after isn't just for fairy tales and Hallmark movies after all.
Perhaps it's for small-town shopkeepers and billionaire CEOs who find each other against all odds.
Perhaps it's for us.
Epilogue
CHRISTIAN
The Grand SummitHotel looks different in the evening light—all illuminated windows and holiday decorations against the night sky. Snow still covers the grounds from yesterday's storm, pristine and glittering under strategically placed landscape lighting. Sophie sits beside me in the Bentley, her expression curious as we pull up to the circular drive where we arrived for the gala just weeks ago. A lifetime ago, it seems. She hasn't asked where we're going for our evening together, trusting me despite having every reason for caution after my recent mistake. That trust is a gift I don't take lightly, a responsibility I intend to honor with every action moving forward.
"The Grand Summit?" she questions as the driver opens her door. "Are there two galas in one month?"
I exit the car, circling to offer her my hand. "No gala tonight. Just us."
Her eyebrows lift in surprise as she takes my hand, allowing me to help her from the car though she needs no assistance. She's wearing a dress the color of midnight, not the emerald velvet from the gala but equally stunning against her honey-blonde hair and fair skin. My choice to bring her here wasdeliberate, planned with the same strategic precision I bring to business deals, but with an entirely different purpose. Not acquisition but recognition. Not claiming but honoring.
"I've arranged something special," I tell her as we enter the lobby, empty now of the crowds that filled it during the gala. "A return to where this began. Where I first claimed you as mine."
Her eyes soften at the reference, recognition dawning. "The mistletoe kiss."
"Among other things," I agree, guiding her not toward the main ballroom but to a private elevator accessed with a keycard I was provided earlier. "Though my understanding of 'mine' has evolved considerably since that night."
She smiles, the expression reaching her eyes in a way that still takes my breath away. "I've noticed."
The elevator rises smoothly to the top floor of the Grand Summit, where the hotel's most exclusive suite awaits. Not for the purposes Sophie might assume—though I won't pretend I haven't imagined it—but for something equally intimate in a different way. A gesture to Ben our new beginning, our deeper understanding, our promises to each other.
"Where are we going?" she asks as the elevator continues its ascent.
"You'll see," I reply, enjoying the anticipation building in her expression. For once, my need for control serves a purpose beyond my own security—it allows me to create something special for the woman who has changed everything in my carefully ordered existence.
The penthouse suite is empty. Not just unoccupied, but deliberately cleared—no staff, no security, not even the usual discreet hotel manager lurking in the background. The city glitters below, snow painting the terraces white, Christmas lights blinking on the far slopes. Inside, a fire already burns inthe massive stone hearth, the only sound the soft tick of the heat vents and Sophie's breath as she takes in the scene.
"Christian," she says, her voice suspended between question and wonder, "did you…rent the entire floor?"
I pour her a glass of wine, not trusting myself to say yes without adding something completely unnecessary, like "I wanted you to feel safe" or "I couldn't stand the idea of anyone else in this building tonight." Both are true, but the words would only embarrass us both.
Instead, I hand her the glass and say, "I wanted you to myself."
She stands in the center of the grand living room, swirling the wine and looking at me over the rim of the glass, wary but soft. The navy dress she's wearing drapes her curves in impossible ways, the neckline low enough to reveal the faintest shadow between her breasts. I watch her throat move as she swallows, then sets the glass down, hands folded in front of her.
"You don't have to keep proving things, you know," she says. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"I know." I cross the room, stopping just shy of touching her. "But I want to."
Her gaze flickers to my mouth, then up to my eyes. "Why here, Christian?"
I could give her a clever answer. I could say this is where I first saw her as more than an acquisition, where the idea of ownership became something riskier: devotion. But that's not enough. Not for tonight.
"Because this is where I realized I was in trouble," I say. "And because I want to rewrite that memory with something better."
She laughs, but it's a nervous sound, the kind that trembles at the edges and betrays how new this is for both of us. Her fingers twist in the fabric at her waist, and I can't help myself—I reachfor her hand, untangling her grip, flattening her palm against my chest.
Sophie stands still as prey, but her pulse flutters beneath my thumb. "You don't have to rush," she whispers.
