"I need to get back to work," she says, but her gaze flicks meaningfully between Sloane and me. "This story writes itself, but I want to get it published before anyone tries to spin the narrative."
She pauses at the door, turning back with a grin that could power the city. "Enjoy your moment. You both earned it."
The words hang in the air like a benediction, and then Easton smiles too before he follows her out, leaving us alone in this cathedral of corporate power with nothing but the truth between us.
I watch Sloane's shoulders drop as the warrior persona she's worn for days finally begins to fade. The brilliant strategist is still there—will always be there—but underneath it, I can see glimpses of the woman who used to steal my hoodies. Who laughed at my terrible jokes. Who trusted me with her secrets and her dreams before I broke that trust with my need to be her hero.
She turns toward me, and when our eyes meet, the impact is like a clean hit to the chest. Everything I've been holding back—relief, love, hope, the desperate need to touch her—crashes through me with enough force to make my knees wobble.
"Garrett," she says, and my name in her voice sounds different now. Softer. Less guarded.
"Sloane." I take a careful step toward her, then stop. This is her moment, her victory, her choice. I've learned to wait for her cue.
She's studying my face with that analytical intensity I know so well, but there's something new there too. Something that looks almost like wonder.
"You didn't speak for me in there," she says quietly.
The observation hits me like a revelation. She's right. When Miller launched his attack, when he tried to reduce her brilliance to pillow talk and personal scandal, every instinct I had screamed at me to defend her. To stand up anddeliver some passionate declaration of her competence. To be her champion.
Instead, I stepped back. Gave her the floor. Trusted her to fight her own battle while knowing I'd be there when the smoke cleared.
"No," I agree, my voice rough with emotion. "I didn't."
"You stood with me."
Four words. Four simple words that rewrite everything between us.
The relief that crashes through me is so overwhelming I have to grip the back of a chair to stay upright. She sees it. She understands what I've learned, what I've become. I'm not her hero anymore—I'm her partner. Her equal. The man who trusts her competence completely and loves her fiercely enough to let her shine without dimming her light with my own need to matter.
"Always," I manage. "I'll always stand with you."
Something in her expression shifts, the last wall between us crumbling. She's crossing the space between us before I can process the movement, her hands coming up to frame my face with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the words hit me like absolution. "For shutting you out. For not seeing that you were trying to learn. For not giving you the chance to show me you'd changed."
"You had every right—"
"No." Her thumbs trace my cheekbones, and I lean into the touch, starved for the contact. "I was scared. Scared of wanting you so much that I'd lose myself the way my mother did. Scared of trusting someone with that kind of power over me. But you..." She shakes her head, wonder bright in hergreen eyes. "You gave the power back. You made yourself my weapon instead of my savior."
The truth of it settles between us, a connection finally solidified. She's right. That's exactly what I did. What we did together.
"I love you," I say, the words coming out rough and unguarded. "I love your brilliant mind and your fierce heart and the way you turn impossible situations into victories. I love that you don't need me to rescue you—you rescue yourself. And I love that you're strong enough to let me stand beside you while you do it."
Her smile transforms her entire face. "I love you too. God, I love you so much it terrifies me. But not the bad kind of terrified anymore. The good kind. The kind that means something matters enough to be worth the risk."
When she rises on her toes to kiss me, I meet her halfway, my arms coming around her waist to pull her against me. There's no desperation here, no frantic hunger—not yet. Just the quiet confidence of a promise being kept, the gentle press of lips that says we found our way back to each other.
This is forgiveness and promise and profound love, tasting like forever.
Her lips are soft and sure beneath mine, and when I deepen the kiss, she sighs into my mouth with a deep contentment. But as our tongues dance together, as her hands slide up to tangle in my hair, something shifts. The gentle reunion kiss transforms into something deeper, warmer. More intent.
"So," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "What now?"
Before I can answer, her briefcase catches my eye where she set it beside the conference table. I move to collect it, liftingthe weight that represents everything she's accomplished. Not because she can't carry it herself, but because I want to. Because supporting her load is different from carrying her burden.
"Now," I say, offering her my arm, "we go downstairs. Together. Then you're coming home with me. I'm cooking you a proper celebration dinner. No arguments."
Her smile turns wicked, her eyes dancing with a light I thought had been extinguished forever. "Oh, so the master chef is finally going to perform? I was beginning to think all those cookbooks on your shelf were just for show."
