I slide the ring onto her finger, the fit perfect, the light catching the diamond until it looks like a piece of the sun. 'Deal,' I say, and kiss her with everything I have.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IVY
The drive back home is nothing like the drive out.
Eight weeks ago, the interior of Brooks’s SUV felt like a high-end prison cell. I was vibrating with a mixture of resentment and pure, unadulterated terror, wondering if I could jump out at sixty miles per hour and survive the fall. Back then, Brooks was a strategist, a cold, calculating force who had used the law like a scalpel to dissect my life.
Now, as the skyline of New York rises out of the hazy September horizon like a jagged crown of glass and steel, I am sitting in the same leather seat, but the atmosphere has changed entirely. The predatory silence has been replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that makes my skin hum. Brooks’s hand is resting casually on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles that keep my heart rate at a steady, frantic gallop.
I look down at the ring on my finger. In the harsh afternoon light of the city, it is blinding. It isn’t the “prop” diamond, the one that carried the Taylor name and the ghost of a grandmother I’ll never meet. This is a five-carat middle finger to everyonewho thought I was a stand-in. It is bright, it is bold, and it feels remarkably heavy.
Ten thousand dollars, my internal monologue whispers for the hundredth time.
I spent a large amount of money on a twenty-minute helicopter ride to stop a man from destroying himself. It is the most financially reckless thing I’ve ever done, a move that should have had my “Fixer” instincts screaming in agony. And yet, looking at the sharp line of Brooks’s jaw and the way his eyes soften every time they catch mine, I don’t feel a single ounce of buyer’s remorse. It is the best deal I’ve ever closed.
“You’re doing it again,” Brooks says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the sound of the wind.
“Doing what?”
“The math. I can practically hear the gears turning from here, Sullivan. Are you wondering if the fuel surcharge on the Blade flight was deductible?”
I laugh, leaning my head back against the headrest and watching the graffiti-covered walls of Queens blur past. “Actually, I was wondering how many cherubs I could buy for four hundred and ninety thousand. Just to place them strategically around your penthouse as a reminder of where we started. I think a dozen gold-plated ones in the foyer would set the tone.”
“If a single plaster angel enters my building, Ivy, the wedding is off. I’ll go back to being a cold, lonely billionaire and you can go back to being a professional bridesmaid from River Bend. It’ll be cleaner for everyone.”
“Liar,” I tease, reaching over to lace my fingers through his. “You’d hire a consultant to ‘manage’ the angel situation and end up falling in love with her too.”
Brooks’s expression softens, his mouth pulling into something rare and unguarded. It is a look reserved only for me,the one that makes the “Shark of Wall Street” look like a man who has finally found his way out of the deep water. “I’m done hiring consultants, Ivy. I have the only one I’ll ever need.”
As we cross the Queensboro Bridge, my phone begins to vibrate in the cup holder like a live wire. It has been doing that since the moment we stepped off the veranda at Eastmoor. The “Taylor Triumph” isn’t a business headline; it is a social media wildfire. The image of me, leather-clad, wind-blown, and defiant, stepping off that helicopter has become the “Relatable Billionaire Romance” moment of the century.
I pick up the phone and swipe through a barrage of notifications. A text from Savvy is pinned at the top.
Savvy
Bitch, do NOT go to your apartment. The office is literally a florist shop. We have twelve new inquiries for weddings next summer. Three of them are from people with actual titles. Maddy is crying. I’m drinking champagne at 11:00 AM. GET HERE NOW.
I show the screen to Brooks. "It looks like business is booming. Apparently, being associated with a very successful weekend is good for referrals."
"Good," Brooks says, his voice dropping into that familiar register that still makes my breath hitch. "Because Ever After was already good. This reminded people why they hire you." He pauses, then adds carefully, "If you need to scale up, hire staff, expand your vendor network, I could help with the capital."
I study his face. "You're not trying to fix this with money."
"No," he says immediately. "You didn't touch the settlement except for the helicopter. The rest is yours. I'm not rewriting that."
My chest tightens.
"But I am done watching you absorb risk alone," he continues. "If you want introductions, space, protection from predators who smell momentum, I can help. You stay in charge. Always."
"I didn't do any of this for recognition," I say quietly. “I did it for you.”
“I know,” he says.
He pulls the SUV to a stop outside the refurbished barn that houses Ever After. Usually, River Bend's main street is quiet this time of morning, but today there are two delivery vans parked outside and a handful of photographers lingering across the street, cameras already trained on Brooks's car.
"The shark arrives in town," I murmur, seeing the flashes go off the second Brooks steps out of the car.
