Impulsively, I step forward and wrap her in a quick, grateful hug. “Thanks again, Sylvie.”
She hugs me back tightly. “You are most welcome. Now off you go. And remember, I shall be waiting for every detail.”
As I open the door and step into the hall, a nervous flutter builds low in my stomach. Because I’m not just heading to the dock. I’m heading toward answers.
And maybe—because magickisreal—a chance at the kind of love I’ve spent far too long pretending I don’t care about.
Seventeen
I step onto the dock, the salty sea air curling around me,brushing cool against my cheeks. The water, the sway, the soft creak of wood beneath my feet—it all feels too familiar.
It was only three days ago.Three days.
Alder and I were tangled in each other’s arms, breathless, making promises, the night air brushing our skin as we fell asleep on a dock so much like this one. That dock was supposed to be a pause, a weekend escape. Instead, it became a portal. A threshold. The end of one life and the beginning of something I still can’t name.
So much has happened since then. Too much.
It feels like I’ve lived an entire lifetime in the span of a few sunrises. Like I’ve shed one version of myself and stepped into another—raw, aching, unsure of the terrain but still somehow stronger than before.
And the Gemma who stood on that dock with Alder just a few nights ago? She would’ve said yes to anything he asked. Let him possess her, parade her around likean accessory to his perfect all-American image. All smiles and angles and glossy PR-approved photos. She would’ve swallowed her doubts with champagne and let the press call it love.
And I really thought I was okay with that.
But I’m not. Not anymore.
I’d rather move back in with my parents, red-faced and broke, than sell my soul for a lifetime of money and sex and nothing more. I’d rather start from nothing—be humiliated, be lost—than lose myself.
Because now I’ve seen something else. I’ve seen him. Not just the curated version, the one built for boardrooms and magazine covers, but the one who has depth and is all kindness and fun and who looked at me like I mattered.
I want that man.
And I want him to see me—all of me. Not just the polished, poised version he used to show off at fundraisers. Not the woman who stayed quiet, smoothed the edges, and did whatever it took to stay in his orbit. I want him to see the woman I’m becoming—the one who’s scared and brave, who stumbles and still keeps going. The one who deserves more than admiration or control. Who wants partnership. Who wants to bechosennot because she’s easy to parade around, but because she’s real and messy and still worthy of being loved.
Who saw magick with her own eyes.
Who watched someone die and still has no idea what to do with that knowledge.
I hope he’s ready to talk. Really talk. And I hope he’s ready to listen—the way he did yesterday morning in the gardens, when for a moment, it felt like we’d finallystopped pretending.
Because I’m not just here to say yes. I’m here to be heard.
And if he can’t give me that…I’m walking away.
A small, beautiful sailboat moored in a slip catches my eye as I pass it on my way to the end of the dock. It rocks gently on the water. The hull gleams in the midmorning sun, the sleek, polished wood curving elegantly. The navy sail is neatly furled, secured with knotted ropes worn soft with use.
Sunbeams scatter across the great moat that surrounds the castle isle, shattering into flashes of gold and silver. But beyond it—past the glimmering waters and the gently bobbing sailboat—shadows stretch long and dark through the towering pines. The bridge that connects this island to the next is crumbling, ivy strangling the stone, its arch broken and sagging like a spine that can’t hold the weight anymore. One good storm, and it’ll collapse.
Maybe I will too.
The breeze picks up, sharp and cool as it rolls off the water. It lifts the ribbon from my hair, and I let it go. Let it flutter away like the white flag I’m no longer willing to raise.
I brace my hands on the dock railing, fingers curling around the weathered wood. I breathe in the scent of salt and pine, let it sting my lungs, let it keep me from unraveling.
Maybe he won’t come.
Maybe he’ll make it heartbreakingly easy to walk away.
The seconds stretch. A gull cries somewhereoverhead, its call sharp and lonely. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the wood creaking beneath me, and pretend I don’t keep glancing over my shoulder to scan the path behind me every few heartbeats. The wind picks up again, tugging at my sleeves, like even it’s trying to pull me back.
