“Devney…” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I kept going with the charade because I was falling in love with you.”
His look gave her hope.
“Not just with the idea of you, but with the man who held me like I was precious, who whispered my name in the dark.”
His composure slipped for a second. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring.
“You kept it,” she whispered.
“I thought it was a message. That you were severing the connection between us. Ending the charade.”
“It was.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “I thought that’s what you wanted. What you needed. After I ruined everything.”
“What I need is you. All of you.”
The moment hung suspended between them—a heartbeat of time in which everything might change, or nothing at all.
“I love you.” Her heart laid bare. “Not the CEO. Not the man with the perfect plan. You. The man who brought me sunflowers because I once mentioned my grandmother’s garden. The man who tolerates my ridiculous pen because he knows it matters to me. The man who looks at me like…like I matter.”
“You do.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the power of those two words settled deep inside. “And you didn’t ruin everything.”
“The deal?—”
“Is secure.” He held up a hand to stop her. “Andrew and I reached an agreement. Different terms. More favorable to him. But the company will survive.”
Relief crashed through her, so powerful she swayed on her feet. “So, my coming here?—”
“—might have started as business,” he said, closing the distance between them, his free hand lifting to cup her cheek, “but somewhere along the way, it became about us.”
His touch sent electricity through her, heat sinking into her bones. “I don’t understand.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I came here this morning to talk to Eleanor,” he admitted, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “To ask her how to get you back.”
The confession stole her breath. “Why would you want that? After what I did?” she asked.
“Because, fake or not, these past weeks with you have been the most real thing in my life.” His eyes held hers, vulnerability replacing the control she had always associated with him. “The sunflowers weren’t strategy. The moments in my office, the night we spent together—none of that was for Andrew Beauchamp’s business.”
“Then what was it for?” she asked.
“For this.” He pressed the ring into her palm, closing her fingers around it. “A foundation. One worth building on. If you’ll help me.”
She searched his face, looking for any trace of strategy, but all she found was raw honesty—a man without a plan, offering nothing but himself.
“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his voice low. “At vulnerability. At trust. At forgiveness. But I want to learn. With you.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, unchecked. “What if I mess up again? What if my impulsiveness?—”
“Then we’ll fix it. Together.” His hand slid into her hair, drawing her closer. “No more charades. No more strategic advantages. Only us. Figuring it out as we go.”
The ring pressed into her palm, still holding the heat from his pocket. Not a symbol of the ruse any longer, but of possibility. Of a beginning built on truth rather than strategy.
“Together,” she echoed, the word a promise, a hope—a future she hadn’t dared imagine twenty-four hours ago.
And then his lips found hers, and no more words were necessary.
Chapter 23
