"What?"
"Isabelle realized she and I weren't working. That we didn't have what she and Alexei had always had—they’d met before Isabelle and I did. They dated and because of, I don’t know, timing and life, they split. When she tried to end things with me, I... I didn't handle it well. Told her she was making a mistake. That what we had was good enough." He swallows hard. “Apparently, after we were over, Alexei tried to stay away from her. They both did. For months. But it was bigger than them. Like?—"
He stops, looking at me.
"Like what I feel for you," he says quietly. "The kind of thing you can't fight. The kind that makes you rearrange your entire life just to be near someone. The kind that terrifies you because you know losing it would destroy you."
My chest aches. "Victor?—"
"Alexei tried to tell me. That night at the yacht. That's why he was there—Richard invited him specifically to ambush me, to make me lose control. Alexei was trying to warn me, trying to explain, trying to apologize for how it happened even though neither of them actually betrayed me." His voice drops. "And I didn't give him a chance. Just like I didn't give you a chance to explain."
He's close enough now that I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability, the fear.
"I'm really good at pushing people away," he says quietly. "At protecting myself. At choosing fear over love. But I don't want to do that anymore. I want to choose you. Every day. Even when it's scary. Even when it's hard. Even when my instincts are screaming at me to run."
"Victor, it’s not?—“
"I'm not asking you to forgive me right now. I'm asking you to let me prove I've changed. To let me show you that I trust you. That I believe in us. That I love you more than I'm scared." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the plane tickets from the video. "Quebec City. December twentieth. Two tickets. Say yes."
I look at the tickets. At Victor. At the man who just risked his entire professional reputation to tell the world he loves me.
At the man who's been standing in the snow for forty minutes just to see if I'd come down.
At the man who learned to make my signature dish and talked through every failure because that's his language of love.
And I realize: I'm done being scared too.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay?"
"Okay. Quebec City. Christmas. Us." I take a step closer. "But Victor—if you ever fire me in public again, I'm going to do a lot worse than pour tomato juice on you."
His smile is devastating. "Noted."
"And you're going to have to grovel. Extensively. For at least six months."
"I can do that."
"And you have to come to Sunday dinners. Every week. My mother already loves you more than she loves me."
"That seems fair."
"And Victor?"
"Yes?"
"I love you too. Even though your cooking is literally a crime against humanity.”
Boyishly gorgeous as he breaks out into a deep laugh, he closes the distance between us, pulling me into his arms.
And to be honest, his body is absolutely freezing. His suit is damp from snow, and there are literal icicles clinging to his long dark lashes.
And I have never been more enamored with him than I am in this moment.
I pull back to look at him. "Your lips are blue. We need to get you inside before you actually die."
"Dying for love. I could do worse.”
