The worst possible moment.
Maybe that means there’s still more for me to unpack. More for me to sort through because despite all that, I know without a doubt that Boone didn’t mean to hurt me.
“I’m not sure.”
“Fair enough,” he says, giving a small nod before turning back to his paperwork.
The rest of the ride passes in comfortable silence, the hum of the train a constant background to my thoughts. When the brakes squeal and the train doors hiss open at our stop in Manhattan, Cain stands, stepping aside to let me out first. But before we can walk off, he reaches out and gently spins me toward him, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, his voice low. “I know we don’t, uh, talk a lot about feelings and all that, but is everything okay with Boone? I saw what went down Friday. I heard he went off script. Rhiannon said he texted her in a panic about what to do to make things right with you.”
I plaster on a practiced smile and wave it off like it’s nothing. “Yeah, he just caught me off guard. But the news still ate up the story, and the PR team’s photo is trending, so it’s all working out.”
Cain studies me for a moment longer, his mouth pressing into a thin line as if debating whether to push further. He doesn’t. Instead, he nods and gestures toward the exit.
The air outside is crisp and biting, our breaths visible as we make the short walk to the office. Snow crunches underfoot of my boots, and the streets shimmer with a fresh dusting from the night before.
I’m ready for spring to arrive in the city. I’m ready for a fresh beginning. Isn’t this how winter always feels? It’s nice at the beginning, but eventually you just want the scent of fresh rain in the air to fill your lungs and greenery.
We ride up the elevator to our offices in silence, the weight of the day settling heavily on my shoulders. When we reach thetop floor, Cain veers off toward his office with a quick, “See you later,” while I shrug out of my coat and head to mine.
But the moment I open my office door I freeze because I’m not alone in here like I usually am on a Monday morning.
My dad and four senior partners from the firm are standing there, all wearing shiny plastic “You did it!” hats, their grins brighter than the sun struggling to peak through the clouds outside.
“Congratulations!” they shout in unison, their voices echoing through the otherwise empty office floor.
“Congrats, baby girl!” my dad booms, his voice carrying as it always does. His energy fills the room, radiating pride as he stands at the center of the celebration with a big smile on his tired face.
I blink, surprised by the sight of a chocolate cake from my favorite bakery perched atop my desk, flanked by neatly wrapped gifts topped with bows. And is that… lumpia and pancit from my favorite place in Brooklyn?
Dammit. Just seeing that reminds me of Boone, and now I want to cry all over again.
My dad is holding a bottle of champagne, and Dierks, my fellow junior partner I’ve been working alongside for years, steps forward with a smile and a champagne flute.
“Congrats. Well deserved.”
Which is saying a lot coming from a guy who hates celebrations.
I take it, a real smile breaking across my face for the first time in days. There are tears there too, some for this, and some because all I want to do is text Boone the good news.
I straighten my shoulders and wipe at my cheeks. “Thank you.”
Because despite the storm in my personal life, this moment is mine. And it’s not just because I married a professional hockey player to fix his reputation. Or because I conceded to all my father’s demands. Fake marriage or not, I’ve worked my ass off for this firm for years. I’ve taken the toughest cases, won the most in court even beating out Cain’s record this past year.
I deserve this. And no one or no thing can be attributed to my success but me and my perseverance. And that’s something that I’ll always be proud of.
My dad raises his glass, his face softening as he clears his throat. The room quiets, and all eyes turn to focus on him.
“Listen up, everyone,” he begins, his voice filled with pride. “Rosie joined this firm fresh out of college four years ago, eager and hungry to prove herself. And boy, has she done just that. She’s not just a powerhouse in the courtroom. Her research skills are unmatched, and she tackles every challenge, no matter how unconventional, with grace and grit. She’s the reason for so much of our success. Hell, she’s thefutureof this firm. A rising star who keeps us all on our toes and ensures we stay at the top of our game.” His voice wavers slightly as his eyes meet mine, full of warmth.
“Rosie, I’m so damn proud of you. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve become is worthy of celebration. I love you so much and I’m proud to be your father.”
And now I’m crying real tears because those are the kindest and most genuine words that I’ve ever heard my father say about me.
The room bursts into applause, and for a moment, the chaos of my life fades into the background. Because here, in this moment, I’m not the woman untangling a fake marriage or trying to sort out her very strong, veryrealfeelings for the hockey player she intentionally married and accidentally fell in love with.
I’m just Rosie—fierce, determined, and finally getting the recognition I’ve worked so hard for.
