“To Derek and Maya!” the room echoes, glasses rising.
The applause is deafening. People are crying. Dabbing eyes with napkins.
Brody walks back to our table. Sits next to me.
Penny is staring at us with tears in her eyes. “That was beautiful,” she whispers.
Conrad nods, his expression serious. “Real recognizes real.”
I’m going to hyperventilate. I can’t be here.
The DJ announces the first dance. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Derek and Maya to the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife!”
Everyone’s attention shifts. Maya and Derek walk to the center of the floor, and some slow, romantic song starts playing. They’re holding each other, swaying, lost in their own world.
I stand abruptly. “Bathroom.”
I’m moving before anyone can respond, weaving between tables, heading for the exit. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
The hallway outside the ballroom is blessedly empty—just cream-colored walls and sconces and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
I lean against the wall, trying to get my heart rate under control. Trying to think.
What was that?That’s how love feels when it’s real.
“Chloe.”
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 realinto 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, justneeding.
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.
