“Pity?” he snarls, lifting a hand as if to grab my arm.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Cohen moves.
It’s not impulsive. It’s fluid. Precise. The motion of a man who has run out of patience and diplomacy.
He steps in front of me—a wall of muscle and controlled fury—and stops Joe’s arm midair.
“Don’t touch her,” Cohen says. His voice is low, a thunderous rumble that seems to vibrate through the ground. “And don’t you ever project your garbage onto either of us again.”
He tightens his grip on Joe’s wrist, forcing him to bend.
“You cheat because you’re a worthless asshole of a man. Sloane is the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t even dream of looking for anything else.”
Cohen turns slightly, meeting my eyes. They’re on fire.
“Because when I have her, I have everything. She’s my championship, Joe. You’re just a warm-up match that went on way too long.”
Joe—red with rage and humiliation—tries to break free and shoves Cohen.
Fatal mistake.
Cohen doesn’t budge. He shifts his weight and, with flawless form, drives his shoulder straight into Joe’s chest.
A brutal, decisive hit.
Joe goes flying, his feet lifting clear off the ground, and crashes into the snow beside the pedestal, gasping for air.
“Sloane! NOW!”
Cohen doesn’t even look at Joe sprawled on the ground. He reaches for me.
I grab his hand.
We sprint together toward the pedestal.
We slide the three keys in. Our hands are shaking with adrenaline, our breaths mingling in the cold.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The chest swings open.
Inside is the Cupid Trophy—a solid gold bow.
Our hands close together around the cold handle.
We lift it into the air just as the first fireworks explode above us, painting the snow red and gold.
“WE HAVE OUR WINNERS!” Aunt Tina’s voice booms from the speakers.
Others start to arrive. I see Lucy and Lars running toward us, beaming.
But the world narrows to just the two of us.
