“I’ve read your work,” he continues, his tone earnest rather than rehearsed. “Your assessments on land preservation and sustainable development were circulated through one of our advisory boards last year. I couldn’t believe someone with your background wasn’t already consulting at a higher level.”
I laugh softly, a reflex born of disbelief. “I only have a BA,” I say. “And most of my work has been practical.”
“That’s precisely why it stood out,” he replies. “You understand the land because you’ve lived with it, not because you ran projections from a distance.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. We talk for several minutes, the noise of the gala fading as he outlines a project his company is developing, one that would require careful navigation of protected areas and community interests. When he asks if I would ever consider consulting, I demur automatically, the familiar instinct to shrink stepping in before I can stop it.
“I wouldn’t want to misrepresent my qualifications,” I say carefully.
Elliot smiles, unperturbed. “Then don’t,” he says. “Let us fund the rest.”
I blink. “The rest?”
“Your master’s,” he clarifies, as if this is the most natural suggestion in the world. “In full. Tuition, research grants, fieldwork. We invest in people who think the way you do.”
For a moment, the room tilts.
I manage to respond, though I have no idea what words I use—only that I thank him and promise to consider it, my head spinning with the sheer audacity of the offer. The idea that the life I once built in careful increments could suddenly expand like this feels unreal.
I’m still processing when the air around me shifts.
I feel Makari before I see him, the way I always do now, a subtle change in gravity that draws my attention without effort. He moves through the crowd with quiet authority, dark and unmistakable in his tailored brown suit, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a familiar warmth spiraling through me. For a moment I see him in that cruel bear mask again, and my heart sings.
There’s something predatory in the way he approaches, not threatening but unmistakably territorial. I’m hit with a vivid memory of the first night we met, seven years ago, when he stood across a room from me and the world seemed to narrow around his presence. Back then, I didn’t understand what I was sensing, only that it felt dangerous and inevitable all at once.
Now, I smile.
Makari stops at my side, his hand settling at my lower back with possessive ease, and turns his attention to Elliot with polite scrutiny.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he says smoothly, though his eyes flick briefly to the hand Elliot still has lifted mid-gesture.
“Not at all,” Elliot replies, unfazed but clearly aware of the shift. “I was just telling Roxanne how impressive her work is.”
Makari’s gaze softens as it returns to me, pride flickering there in a way that makes my chest ache. “She is,” he agrees simply.
There’s a beat of silence, thick with unspoken assessment, and then Makari leans closer, his lips brushing my ear.
“I need to steal you,” he murmurs. “Before I decide I dislike him more than is reasonable.”
I laugh under my breath and excuse myself, allowing him to guide me toward the center of the room. I expect him to pull me aside, to reclaim me with a dance or a kiss, but instead he slows, turning to face me as the orchestra shifts seamlessly into something softer, something expectant.
The murmur of the room fades.
Makari takes my hands in his, grounding and warm, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see something like nerves flicker beneath his composed exterior. He draws a breath, steadying himself, and when he speaks his voice carries without effort, the room quieting as if it knows instinctively to listen.
“Roxanne. Eight months ago, I didn’t know how to imagine a future that wasn’t built on control and contingency. You changed that.”
A ripple of awareness moves through the crowd, heads turning, attention sharpening.
“You taught me that strength doesn’t come from isolation,” he continues, his gaze never leaving mine. “It comes from choosing something worth protecting, again and again.”
My heart pounds, each beat loud in my ears.
“I don’t know how to be a quiet man,” he says, a hint of wryness touching his expression. “But I know how to be a devoted one.”
He drops to one knee.
The gasp that ripples through the room barely registers compared to the way my breath catches painfully in my chest. Makari looks up at me and opens a small velvet box that catches the light like a captured star.
