But Nick got me out of there. Brought me home, held me, reminded me with his hands and mouth and body that I am more than my past. That I belong here, with him, in this life we're building together.
The fear isn't gone. It coils quiet in my chest, patient as it's always been. Three hundred people will watch me walk down that aisle. Cameras will capture every moment. The whispers will continue, the speculation, the doubt.
But today, wrapped in the memory of his touch, I can carry it. Today, the weight feels manageable.
Three and a half weeks until I become his wife.
I just have to get through the next three and a half weeks. Then our wedding day.
I can do this. For him, I’ll find a way.
4
NICK
The scent of heris still on my skin.
I navigate the BMW through midtown traffic, already later than I told Beck I'd be. My mind is half on the road and half on the woman I left less than an hour ago—Avery, standing in the penthouse entryway with her hair still damp from our shower, rising on her toes to kiss me goodbye. The softness of her mouth. The way her fingers curled into my lapel like she wasn't quite ready to let go.
Neither was I. If this meeting wasn’t so important, I’d still be with her now.
My phone buzzes in the center console. I glance down at the screen.
Avery:Made it to studio. Miss you already.
The tension I didn't realize I was carrying releases from my shoulders. She's safe. At her studio, surrounded by her paints and her work and the creative solitude she needs. I type back at the next red light:Good. I'll have dinner ready when you get home.
Three dots appear, then her message buzzes back.
Avery:I’ll be sure to bring my appetite. Love you.
I grin at her message and at the innuendo, then text back:I’ll make sure you get your fill tonight. Love you too.
I pocket the phone as traffic clears, but the warmth of the exchange stays with me. Three and a half weeks until she's my wife. The wedding preparations have consumed us both. Fittings, guest lists, the relentless press attention that descended the moment our engagement became public. But today isn't about any of that.
Today is about the gift I've been planning since the week after I proposed.
The offices of Whitmore Maritime Acquisitions occupy the forty-second floor of an understated, exclusive building on the Upper East Side. I pull into the parking garage, hand my keys to the attendant, and take the elevator up.
The reception area confirms what the address suggested: dark wood paneling, maritime paintings in gilt frames, model ships displayed in glass cases with museum-quality lighting. Old money aesthetic, executed flawlessly. The kind of place where discretion isn't just valued, it's the entire point.
Andrew Beckham is already seated in an empty conference room when the receptionist shows me through. He looks up from his laptop, contracts spread before him in neat rows.
"Did someone forget their alarm this morning?" He wryly checks his watch. "At least you made good time."
I take the empty chair next to him. "Sorry, Beck. I was detained."
His mouth curves. "So I gathered. Speaking of which, how’s Avery today?"
He knows about the press assault outside House of Delaire. In general, Andrew Beckham knows everything. He’s been my lawyer for more than a decade and my closest friend nearly from day one.
“She’s all right,” I tell him, then I blow out a low curse. “I don’t know. I hope she’s all right. Those assholes were brutal yesterday.”
Beck nods soberly. “If you need to send me to the front lines on this, you know you only have to ask.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll let you know.” I glance toward the open door to the room. "Where's Whitmore?"
"Stepped out to take a call. Should be back momentarily."
