I open my eyes. Brody stands in front of me, looking at me with those stormy eyes. The door to the ballroom drifts shut behind him, muffling the sound of the music.
We’re alone.
“Did you mean it?” The words burst out before I can stop them. “What you said in there. Did you mean it?”
He steps closer, his expression serious, none of the Candy Kane charm. Just Brody. Real Brody.
“Yes.” His voice is rough. “Every word.”
Another step. He’s close now. Close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest, smell his cologne. “I love you.”
“Brody—”
“I love you, Chloe. I’m in love with you. I have been for weeks.” His hand comes up, cups my face. “I don’t know when it happened. Maybe that first day in Ironclad. Maybe it was that night you went with me to the hospital. Maybe it was Barcelona. I don’t know. All I know is that I love you, and I can’t keep pretending. I can’t unlove you.”
My eyes are burning. “I love you too.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you.” The words feel like freedom. Like breaking through the surface after being underwater too long. “I love you. Not Candy Kane. You—Brody.”
He kisses me.
And it’s nothing like the careful touches we’ve practiced for cameras. Nothing like the sweet, tentative kiss in Barcelona under the twinkling lights when we were still strangers.
This is Brody pouring six months of wanting and weeks of falling and every single moment of pretending that became real into this one kiss. His hand slides from my face into my hair, fingers tangling, tilting my head back. His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer—not gentle, not asking permission, just needing.
I make a sound—something between a gasp and his name—and he deepens the kiss. His mouth moves against mine like he’s memorizing the taste of me, like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words. I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t want to let you go.
My hands are in his hair, gripping his jacket, pulling him closer even though there’s no closer to get. I can feel his heart hammering against mine, or maybe that’s my heart, or maybe we’ve just become one desperate, aching thing that doesn’t want to end.
Time stops. The world narrows to just this—his mouth on mine, his hands holding me like I’m something precious and breakable and worth fighting for. The hallway disappears. The reception disappears. Everything disappears except the feeling of being completely, devastatingly in love with someone you’re about to lose.
When we finally break apart, it’s only because we need air. His forehead drops to mine. We’re both breathing hard, shaking slightly, neither of us willing to create more distance than absolutely necessary.
“Chloe,” he whispers against my lips, but it’s sad. Like a broken promise. Like an apology.
His thumb traces my cheekbone, gentle now, reverent. I can feel him trembling. Or maybe that’s me.
“Yowza.” We both freeze, still tangled together, as Penny comes down the hallway—out of the restroom, clearly. “Well, that’s the most real kiss I’ve ever seen.”
Oh.
And we’re guilty. Brody’s hands in my hair, mine gripping his jacket, both of us flushed and breathing hard and clearly having just been thoroughly kissing.
She smiles as she walks past us, heading back toward the ballroom, and throws over her shoulder, “Whatever that article says? It’s wrong.”
The door to the ballroom closes behind her.
Brody and I are still frozen, staring at each other. The interruption broke whatever spell we were under. Reality is creeping back in—the contract, the consequences, the impossible choice.
“Brody?” My voice is small. Scared.
He takes a breath. Steps back. Creates distance that feels like miles even though it’s only inches.
And then he says the words that shatter everything. “You have to break up with me.”
Sixteen
