Another moan escapes me as my fingers dig into his shoulder as his touch grows more insistent.
“Always so wet for me.” He whispers against my ear with satisfaction.
I let out a breathy moan, my knees threatening to buckle as he circles his fingers in slow, torturous strokes. He presses one finger inside me, curling it just right, and my body clenches around him. My grip on his suit jacket tightens.
“We’re gonna be late.” I manage to gasp, but it’s a weak protest.
Alex smirks, adding another finger, stroking in and out with a rhythm that has me melting against him. “I don’t care.” He says, watching me with dark, hungry eyes.
I can’t speak, I can only nod as pleasure coils through me. His lips find mine, stealing what little breath I have left. I let myself forget everything else for a moment—the past, the trauma, the what-ifs.
Because right here, this is ours.
The gallery is breathtaking.
Soft, golden light spills from the overhead fixtures, casting a warm glow over the deep blue walls where my paintings hang,each piece carefully arranged, each canvas telling a different part of my journey. The space smells of fresh paint and aged wood, with the faintest hint of champagne and pastries wafting from the refreshment table near the entrance.
I walk slowly through the room, fingers ghosting over the cool metal railing lining the exhibit. Seeing my work displayed like this—framed and mounted with little plaques underneath each one—does something to my heart that I can’t quite describe.
They are pieces of me.
Abstract strokes of color blend together in a way that tells a story only I could understand completely. Hints of deep blues and stormy grays from the early days when I first came home, when everything felt heavy and uncertain. Bold, fiery reds with streaks of gold from the moment I fought against my illness, against my fear, against Alex. And then, my favorite pieces, the ones filled with warmth. Hazy pinks and soft, hopeful yellows, painted in the quiet moments, in the love I’ve found here, in the life I never thought I’d get to live.
These paintings are a love letter to Windhaven.
A love letter tosurvival.
I look around, taking in the faces of the people who have carried me through it all.
Frankie and Liv are off to the side, standing way too close for two people who claim they hate each other. Liv has a glass of champagne in her hand and Frankie keeps leaning in like he’s telling her a secret. Whatever he says makes Liv gasp, and smacks his arm, lips twitching as she tries not to laugh.
Cam and Sophia are also suspiciously close. Cam’s arm is resting on the back of Sophia’s chair, his fingers idly playing with the ends of her hair. Soph is blushing, tucking a loose curl behind her ear as she takes a sip of her drink.
Leo stands by the entrance, balancing Mia on his hip. She claps excitedly at the sight of a painting they are near, babblingsomething incoherent but absolutely enthusiastic. Alex stands next to them, grinning at her and nodding along as if he understands every word. He reaches out, smoothing a hand over her curls, and the sight of them makes me happier than I’ve been in a long time.
It’s perfect.
Almostperfect.
I swallow hard, pressing a hand over my chest.
My parents should be here. Mom and dad should be here, admiring each piece for longer than necessary, taking countless pictures of every moment, making sure I know how proud they are of me.
They would be here if the world were fair.
Mom always told me this would happen one day, that I’d see my name on a gallery wall, that people would admire my work and feel something when they looked at it. I never believed her.
I wish I could tell her she was right.
But I feel her.
I feel her in the warmth of the room, in the quiet pride swelling in my chest. I know she would tell me that she never doubted me for a second, that I was meant for this.
Alex appears at my side, his hand warm against the small of my back. “Do you want to do your speech now?”
I nod.
We step up on a small stage set up with a microphone in a corner of the space. I clear my throat, heart pounding as all eyes turn to me. Alex stands right beside me, his presence riveted and grounding.
