Our car slows, stops.
A set of towering wrought-iron gates swings open at our approach, guarded by two men who nod as we pass through. My breath catches as the SUV glides up the long drive, the house unfolding before me in gleaming angles of stone and glass. It’s enormous, but not cold—light spills through every window, the ocean glittering somewhere beyond the hillside.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. “This is your home?”
Trey glances down at me, and that dimple I’ve already come to know and secretly adore appears in his cheek. His fingers find mine.
“Actually, no.” he says softly. “It’sourhome.”
He pauses, his smile deepening as the car stops before the grand front steps.
“Mi casa es su casa,Mrs. Baker.”
The moment the car stops, Trey is out first, his hand already reaching back for mine. His touch is steady, and I cling to it as he helps me step out. The air smells faintly of salt and orange blossoms, the kind of scent you can’t bottle but wish you could. The breeze catches the hem of my white lace dress, fluttering it around my legs like wings. The house—no, the mansion—gleams under the late afternoon sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the sky, casting gold and silver light across the courtyard where the faint trickle of a fountain plays background music. Two palm trees sway on either side of the wide front steps, their shadows long and graceful against the marble.
It's beautiful in a way that feels unreal. Effortless wealth. Quiet power.
We reach the front doors, and before I can even catch my breath, Trey stops and turns toward me. His green eyes catch the light, glinting with something between amusement and affection.
“What are you—?” I start, but the question dies on my tongue when he sweeps me up into his arms. A startled laugh escapes me, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other curlinginstinctively around his neck. “Trey!” He grins, wicked and warm all at once. “Tradition, Mrs. Baker. Gotta carry my bride across the threshold.” The sound ofMrs. Bakermakes something tremble inside me. He steps through the wide glass doors with me cradled against his chest, the faint scent of cedarwood and smoke wrapping around me like a promise. Inside, the air is clean, the hush of wealth pressing gently around us. The space opens up like a cathedral—white walls, black polished floors reflecting the soft light of a chandelier above. A curved staircase winds up and to the left, elegant and endless. To the right, the living area stretches toward a wall of glass overlooking the infinity pool and the ocean beyond. Sunlight dances across the surface of the water, rippling like liquid gold.
Everywhere I look is art. Abstract paintings. Sculptures of steel and stone. Masculine, intense. Beautiful. Like him.
When Trey finally sets me down, his touch lingers, one arm still around my waist as if he’s not ready to let go.
“Welcome home,” he says, voice low and rough, one dimple appearing as he smiles. The ocean roars softly behind the glass, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the whole world exhales around us.
Maybe this is pretend.
Maybe it’s not.
But in this moment, in his arms, it feels likefreedom.
Chapter twenty-three
Trey
Who Do You Want – Ex Habit
Seraphina’s still looking around like she’s stepped into another universe. I don’t blame her. This place is a lot. Floor to ceiling glass, ocean views that could swallow you whole, clean lines and black marble that gleams under soft gold light. When I bought it, I told myself it was just a house. A crash pad between tours. But watching her now, bare feet padding across the polished floor, fingers brushing along the back of the couch, like she’s afraid to leave fingerprints on something that isn’t hers…it feels different.
Maybe because Iwantit to be?
It’s fucking confusing as hell. Me, all heart eyes. Yet, when I say things to her—soft, breathy, low enough to make my own ears burn—it feels… right.
Wrong, right, I don’t know.
Around everyone else? I can slip back into Prince Charming mode with alarming ease. Too easy, maybe. I think I missed my calling as the greeter at a male brothel. No shame in that line of work—okay, maybe a little—but if the music thing blows up, or I somehow need a career pivot, I could rock that gig. At least I’d know I’d have the charm, the voice, and the smoldering stares down.
“Lord’s blessings, I give thanks,” she whispers, her voice almost lost in the open space. “People actually live like this?”
I smile, I can’t help it. “Youdo now.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide and bright in the fading light. The disbelief in them cuts a little deeper than I expect. She doesn’t see what I see—someone who deserves all of this and more. I take her hand, lead her through the living room toward the hallway.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.” We move slowly, her eyes taking in every detail—the soft hum of the air conditioning, the faint smell of polish and salt air, the echo of our footsteps on the stone floors.
I stop at the master bedroom, pushing open the double doors. The room opens onto a private balcony, sheer curtains fluttering in the warm breeze. The bed’s oversized, dark wood with crisp white sheets that look untouched. Sera stands in the doorway, staring at the space like it might vanish if she blinks too long. Her fingers trail over the dresser, the carved pattern in the wood. Like she’s committing it to memory.
