Her breath catches.
“Trey…”
“I bought them for you,” I say quietly. “You keep them tucked away like they’re meant for someone else.”
Her eyes drop to the floor, guilt or humility—maybe both—softening her features.
“They’re too much,” she whispers. “I don’t need—”
“They’re not about needing.” I step closer, the box cradled in my palm. “They’re about you deserving to be seen. To shine, Dove.”
She doesn’t speak. Her chest rises and falls, slow, unsure.
“Tonight,” I say gently, lifting the earrings free, “wear them for me.”
Her lip’s part—silent, trembling—and she nods.
I brush her hair aside and fasten the diamonds, one by one, watching the way they move against her neck, catching the light with every heartbeat. Then I lift the cross, the weight of it solid, symbolic, and drape it around her throat.
When it settles against her chest, sparkling over the soft sheen of her top, I swear the air stills.
“There,” I murmur, fingers lingering over the chain. “Now you look exactly how I see you.”
She blinks up at me, eyes glassy with something I can’t quite name.
“You make me feel like I’m worthy of you,” she whispers.
I smile faintly, leaning down until my lips hover by her ear.
“You are.”
The sound of the others filters faintly down the hall—footsteps, laughter, Logan’s voice echoing for the third time that they’re going to be late. But in this moment, it’s just us. Her heartbeat. My breath. The cross glinting like starlight between us.
Then she takes my hand, twining our fingers together.
“Okay,” she breathes, eyes shining. “Let’s go make some music.”
She’s insatiable…I love her.
Outside, the noise swells again—Sam calling for his boots, Chace testing his mic pack, Mac shouting something about lipstick. Sera laughs, shaking her head. “You guys are a mess.”
Shit. She meant actual music. Fuck.
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist and stealing one last kiss before we get swept up,
“But we clean up nice.”
The ride to the studio is loud—laughter, teasing, the thrum of music that vibrates through the SUV’s floor. Mac’s talking about Christmas playlists. Sam is pretending he hates them. Chace has got his head tipped back, drumming invisible beats against his thigh.
Sera sits beside me, fingers laced through mine, diamonds flashing when the city lights sweep over us. She’s quiet, calm—the kind of calm that looks like peace and feels like power.
But that peace dies the second we pull up.
The SUV slows to a crawl. The crowd parts just enough for me to see him. Standing on a crate outside the studio gates, Bible in hand, eyes wild with conviction, spit flying with every furious word.
Sera’s father.
“Trey Baker stole my daughter!” His words slice through the air, caught and magnified by the mics and cameras swarming around him. “She was promised to another in the eyes of GOD! This man—this sinner—has corrupted her soul!”
