“Like what?”
“Like you’re the most beautiful thing in here. It’s making this whole boss–assistant boundary impossible.”
Her breath catches, and a faint blush blooms on her cheeks. “If it helps,” she says quietly, “you in that tux aren’t exactly helping my restraint either.”
Before I can reply, she grins and nods toward the stage. “Shh. It’s starting.”
And for the first time in years, I sit there — heart thundering, hand still in hers — not as Henry Chase the architect, but as a man who’s finally realised what it feels like towant something real.
Twenty Eight
Matilda
He’s up fortwoawards.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. These are awards I’ve only ever dreamed of, awards people work their entire careers just to be considered for — and Henry is sitting beside me like he doesn’t quite believe he deserves to breathe the same air as the nominees.
Every few minutes, I can’t help glancing over at him. His emerald eyes stay fixed on the stage, absorbing every word. There’s a softness to him tonight — nerves flickering in his jaw, tension in the way he straightens his cuffs, the quiet inhale when the lights shift. He’s vulnerable. Human. And seeing him like this makes something deep inside me pull tight, like a thread has been tied from him to me.
The man he was a few weeks ago — sharp edges, cold tone, closed off — feels far away now. And this man, the one beside me? I could watch him forever.
“I would now like to introduce Mr. Phillip Lorean to the stage to present our next award,” the host announces.
A refined man steps forward, microphone in hand.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. The Stephen Lawrence Prize, established in 1998, is a meaningful accolade honouring architectural projects that display innovation, originality, and positive social impact. The prize recognises smaller, lesser-known works — the ones that may otherwise go unnoticed — proving remarkable architecture can be achieved regardless of size or budget.”
I lean closer to Henry, whispering, “Good luck.” My shoulder brushes his arm. I glance at James beside me and smile. “He’s nominated for this one too.”
James’ face brightens like sunrise. He looks back to the stage eagerly, and Henry shakes his head with a small smile, like he can’t quite believe any of this.
“And that is why,” the presenter continues, “I can think of no one more deserving of this year’s award than… Henry Chase of Chase Architects.”
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up — cheering, clapping, practically beaming like I’ve just won. Thankfully, James is even louder, his voice carrying across the banquet hall, drowning out any embarrassment.
Henry rises, straightens his tux jacket, then leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.
I freeze. His lips barely brush my skin, but my pulse is suddenly everywhere — chest, fingertips, behind my knees. Before I can react, he kisses his father’s cheek too and heads to the stage. I don’t think I breathe until he’s halfway there.
He looks… breathtaking. Confident yet humble. Masculine and elegant all at once.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, “I’m deeply honoured to receive this award. To be recognised among such esteemed peers is something I will cherish.”
Short. Warm. Sincere. Completely him.
James grips Henry’s shoulders when he returns. “Well done, son. Bloody well done.”
“One more award to go!” I grin, unable to contain my excitement for him.
Twenty minutes later, as they begin presenting the Emerging Architect of the Year, my knee is bouncing uncontrollably. Henry’s hand settles over it, steady and warm.
“Can I take you somewhere after this?” he murmurs.
“What?” I whisper, eyes glued to the stage.
“After the awards. I want to take you somewhere.”
I finally look at him. “Okay… where—”
