A woman in a foundation blazer touches Nick's shoulder. "Mr. Baine, Ms. Ross? They're ready for you now."
I swallow the last of my nerves as we’re led toward the front of the grand ballroom. The stage is small, intimate, set against the projected backdrop of the rec center. Nick leads me up the steps with his hand warm around mine, and the room's attention shifts toward us. Hundreds of faces, soft light, and a hush that travels over the gathering until it’s completely silent except for the soft soundtrack accompanying the slideshow.
Then, even that goes silent as Nick takes the stage. He squeezes my fingers once before releasing my hand to approach the podium, then steps to the microphone.
"Thank you all for being here tonight." His voice fills the room, steady, certain. "Your support is set to transform what began as a single recreation center in Chelsea into something much larger. A nationwide expansion. Thousands of children served. Programs that give kids the tools to build lives worth living."
His right hand grips the edge of the lectern, those scarred fingers wrapped around polished wood as his deep voice commands the attention of every person in front of him.
"The Elizabeth Xavier Center holds particular significance for me." His voice shifts, something unguarded surfacing beneath the polish. "It carries my mother's name. A woman who believed art had the power to save us, even in the darkest circumstances. She gave me my first set of paints when I was four. She taught me to see the world as something that could be shaped into something better, transformed, made new."
He almost never speaks about her publicly, and the control it takes is visible only to me because I know where to look. The slight tension in his jaw, the careful measure of his breathing, the way his hand grips harder without him realizing it. My chest aches for him as he recounts some of his past pain for these people. I ache for the boy he was, and the man he's become in spite of everything that tried to destroy him.
"She died when I was ten. I spent years believing that the part of me she nurtured, the part of me that could feel happiness and hope, died with her." He pauses. The room holds its breath. "I was wrong. It just needed somewhere safe to grow again. That's what these programs offer. A safe place. A chance to discover that you have something worth expressing. Something worth protecting, worth fighting for."
Four hundred people sit in silence, and I am standing just several feet from the man I married in secret only days ago, now watching him open wounds in front of strangers because children he'll never meet might need to know they're not alone. My eyes burn. My throat aches with the effort of keeping still, of not reaching for him, of letting him have this moment on his own terms.
"I’m pleased to announce the next phase of expansion tonight. Three new cities next year, and a matching campaign startingtonight. Every dollar donated between now and January will be matched by the Baine Foundation, up to fifty million." His gaze finds me. Not heated. Not possessive. Just connection. "But the heart of what we do is our art program. And that exists because of someone who understands, in ways I never fully could, what it means to turn pain into something worth keeping."
The look he gives me is brief, but it lands in my body like a tender hand scooping into my breast and holding my heart.
"Avery Ross has built something extraordinary. She’s my partner in everything I do, the woman I love, and I'm honored to introduce her now."
Applause swells through the ballroom as Nick steps back from the podium and motions for me to join him. When I move to take his place, he cradles my face and kisses me—fleeting, but full of meaning—and his solemn gaze carries everything we can't say in front of this room.
Then he's gone from the stage, and I'm alone.
The room spreads out before me, faces and candlelight and the receding thunder of their warm applause. I glance away from the crowd for a moment, searching for Nick. He's positioned himself off to the side, where he can watch without drawing focus. His affectionate expression steadies me, grounding me in a way I didn't know I needed until this exact moment.
I take a breath.
Then I step to the microphone.
31
NICK
I've positioned myself atthe edge of the ballroom, back to the wall where the St. Regis's gilded columns cast long shadows, a glass of whiskey barely touched and warming in my hand. All my focus is on the vision in midnight blue silk up on the stage, her blonde hair glowing under the ballroom chandeliers, the pearls and diamonds at her throat a satisfying reminder that she’s mine.
My wife, although no one in this audience full of New York’s elite knows it.
Pride swells behind my ribs as I watch Avery at the microphone, wrapping up her remarks. The room has gone absolutely still. Not the restless, polite silence of donors calculating their tax deductions. Real, rapt attention. The kind you can't buy.
She's not performing. She's sharing. And this crowd, for all their sophistication, can feel the difference.
As she explains her belief that art can light a path out of the dark, she catches my eye across the crowd. Even at this distance, her smile reaches me like a physical thing. Everything male inme responds to that subtle, secret curve of her lips, meant only for me. I take a sip of my whiskey and start calculating how soon before I can take her out of here and get her back into our bed.
I set my whiskey on the bar, about to head through the crowd to meet her once she finishes her closing words. A deep voice on the other side of me halts my exit.
"Impressive speech. Your fiancée is a natural."
The remark comes from my left—low, arrogant, with the kind of unstated authority that doesn't need volume. I turn, and the first thing I clock about him is his height. Six-three, at least. His hair is a similarly dark shade to mine, though slightly less contained than my precision style. Broad through the shoulders, he’s got a predator’s frame, trim and dangerous beneath a black tuxedo suit that screams Savile Row. Storm-gray eyes are already locked on mine, reading me with the same sharp, assessing focus I'm turning on him.
A signet ring gleams on his right hand. Old family. Old money. The kind that opens doors I've had to kick down.
I don't recognize him, but everything about him puts my instincts on alert.
"Sebastian Roth." He extends his hand. His brief smile is more a baring of teeth, slashing deep dimples beneath cheekbones that could cut glass. "We've never met in person. I thought I'd fix that."
