“Since the letter.”
I searched his face. “You read it and … what?”
“And saw you. Not the request. You.”
Simple. Certain.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
We lay there for a while longer, tangled in the sheets, his hand tracing idle patterns on my skin. The world outside started to intrude—my phone buzzing on the nightstand, the light brightening through the blinds—but for those minutes, it didn’t matter.
Eventually, I reached for the phone.
The story had dropped.
Anna’s article was live on the Post and Courier site:Advocate Lia Quinn’s Romantic Link to Hunter Raises Questions About Mission Integrity.
I skimmed it—photos, property records, quotes from anonymous donors, a statement from Eleanor saying the board was “reviewing the situation.”
My stomach twisted.
Cassian read over my shoulder, his body tense but still.
“It’s out,” I said.
“Yes.”
I set the phone down, rolled onto my back. “There’s a gala tonight. Eleanor wants a statement there.”
He nodded. “You going?”
I looked at him. “I have to.”
“What will you say?”
I didn’t know. Not yet.
But as I lay there, his hand resting on my hip, my body still humming from his touch, the answer started to form.
Not denial.
Not distance.
Truth.
The kind that burned everything down—and built something new.
The day passed in slow, deliberate pieces.
After the quiet intimacy of morning, we didn’t rush. Cassian made coffee downstairs while I lingered in the bedroom, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
The woman looking back was the same one who’d written that letter—hair still damp from the shower, eyes a little wider, a little less guarded. But there were new lines now: faint shadows under my eyes from sleepless nights, a softness at the corners of my mouth that hadn’t been there before.
I touched my lips, remembering his kiss, and my body answered immediately—a low, insistent warmth that saidyes, this is right.
Downstairs, he handed me a mug without speaking. We drank in silence at the island, rain tapping against the windows like it was trying to get in. My phone stayed dark for a mercifulhour—no new texts from Harper, no follow-ups from Eleanor. Just the two of us, sharing space like we’d done it forever.
Around noon, my mother called.
