"Let them look," he says. He walks around to my side, opens the door, and offers me his hand. He doesn't walk me to the door; he pulls me flush against his side, his arm heavy and protective around my waist. He leans over and captures my mouth in a kiss that is anything but "stable." It is hot, public, and a clear declaration of ownership. "I'll pick you up at seven. We have a dinner with the Hawthornes. They want to discuss investing in a hospitality venture, and I told them they should hear your take on it first."
Walking into the office feels like stepping into a dream.
Savvy isn't exaggerating. The place is an explosion of flowers. Lilies, peonies, orchids, and yes, even a few "aggressive florals" like birds of paradise that look like they are ready to bite. The scent is overwhelming, a heady, sweet perfume of success and chaos.
"These are all from him, by the way," Savvy adds. "Every single arrangement."
Maddy screams the second she sees me, abandoning a pile of silk ribbons to tackle me into a hug. "You absolute legend! The helicopter! The leather! THE RING!"
She pulls back, her eyes wide as she grabs my hand to inspect the diamond. “Ivy, this isn’t the same ring. This isn’t the family heirloom. This is… this is ‘I’ll burn the world down for you’ jewelry.”
“He is a bit intense,” I say, though my smile feels wide enough to split my face.
“He’s obsessed,” Savvy says, popping a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and handing me a glass. “We saw the footage from the gala. Every business outlet in the city is running some version of ‘the Modern Merger.’ The way he looked at you when you were on that stage. That wasn’t management, honey. That was a man who had finally found his heartbeat.”
I sit down on the sofa, the last forty-eight hours finally settling on me. “It’s real, guys. All of it.”
“We know,” Maddy says. “He loves you, Ivy.” Maddy squeezes my hand. “And the best part? The world knows it. We’ve already had calls from Vogue,” Maddy says. “They want a glossy fairytale about the billionaire and his mysterious fiancée. You won’t say yes, but the interest alone is sending clients into a frenzy. You’re not the stand-in anymore. You’re the main event.”
We spend the afternoon triaging the explosion of business. Ever After is no longer a struggling boutique; we are the agency of record for the New York elite. But as I work through the spreadsheets and the floral orders, my mind keeps drifting to the dinner tonight.
Brooks shows up at my apartment door at seven sharp, looking devastating in a charcoal suit that probably has its own insurance policy. His eyes track over me, taking in the deep sapphire-blue silk that hugs every curve, my hair left down inthose wild waves that were once too untamed for his carefully controlled world.
"You look incredible," he says, his voice dropping low.
"I clean up okay," I say, then hold up my overnight bag. "You said to pack for the night."
Something heats in his expression as he takes the bag from me. "I did."
He carries it down to the SUV himself, where his driver waits by the idling car. Brooks tosses the bag into the back seat, then opens my door, his hand finding the small of my back as I slide in.
The restaurant is one of those hushed Manhattan places where deals are made over impossibly expensive wine. The Hawthornes are already seated when we arrive: Matthew, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, and his wife Elena, elegant, suggesting old money and even older confidence.
Brooks's hand remains at the small of my back as we approach the table.
"Matthew, Elena," Brooks says smoothly. "This is Ivy Sullivan, my fiancée."
"The woman in the helicopter," Matthew says with a grin, rising to shake my hand. "Elena's been dying to meet you since she heard about your entrance this weekend."
Elena laughs, the sound genuine and warm. "I told Matthew that any woman who can pull off a leather jacket arrival and coordinate a flawless event deserves my respect. Please, sit."
The dinner flows easily. Matthew and Elena aren't testing me; they are genuinely curious. They ask about Ever After, about how I built the business, about my vision for expansion. Brooks doesn't interject or manage the conversation. He listens, his hand occasionally finding mine under the table, his eyes tracking every word I say with something that looks like pride.
"We're considering investing in a boutique hotel venture," Matthew says over dessert. "Something experiential, high-touch. Elena thought you might have insights on what makes a luxury hospitality experience actually work."
I lean forward, ideas already forming. "The trick isn't the thread count or the champagne selection. It's about anticipating needs before guests know they have them. Making them feel like the entire experience was designed for them."
Elena's eyes light up. "Exactly. That's what we want to create."
By the time we leave the restaurant, Matthew has my card and Elena kisses my cheek, whispering, "You're good for him. I can tell."
The drive to Brooks's penthouse feels charged with anticipation. I've never been to his place before; all our time together had been at the estate, at restaurants, in neutral territory. This is his space, his world, and I am about to step into it.
The elevator ride up feels endless, the numbers climbing higher and higher until we reach the top floor. The doors slide open directly into his penthouse, and I catch a glimpse of floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling out in glittering lights below, marble and steel and space that seems to go on forever.
But I don't get to see more than that.
Brooks pulls me against him the second we step inside, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that erases every thought except him. He backs me up against the nearest wall, his hands framing my face, his body pressing into mine.
