It was strong. Clean. A diamond set low and intentional. No excess.
“I’m asking you to build with me,” he finished. “In Charleston. In New York. Wherever we stand.”
My breath left me in a rush.
“Cecilia Quinn,” he said, voice steady but deeper now. “Marry me.”
There were no violins.
No fireworks.
Just the fountain. The lights. The weight of months of truth between us.
I saw it then—all of it.
The woman at the kitchen table months ago typingI am tired of being good.
The boardroom.
The gala.
The way he’d brought my mother into his house not as an accessory, but as family.
The way he’d shown up for Harper.
The way he’d never once asked me to choose smaller.
I stepped forward.
Dropped to my knees in front of him.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Then louder.
“Yes.”
His hand trembled slightly as he slid the ring onto my finger.
Hunters don’t let go.
Neither do I.
But this wasn’t about holding tight.
It was about standing, side by side.
He stood, pulling me up with him.
The courtyard lights flickered brighter.
And from inside the house, applause erupted.
I laughed through tears as Harper burst out first, Luca behind her, my mother clutching her chest, Aunt Mabel shouting, “Finally!”
“You knew?” I demanded.
“Of course, we knew,” Harper said, grinning. “He asked for our blessing.”
