“I boughtyoua yacht.”
“When—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He’s walking us back toward the car. “It’s yours.”
“Ours,” I correct him, before adding. “That is the most?—”
“I’m aware.”
He sets me in the passenger seat. Leans in. His face is close enough that I can see he’s genuinely, quietly happy — the version of him I didn’t know existed until recently.
“Drive fast,” I tell him.
He laughs.
The engine purrs to life, and we drive off into the sunset.
Somewhere on the highway, with the ring on my finger catching the passing lights, I think about the woman who sat in an elevator months ago and decided to see what the worst that could happen looked like.
She didn’t know. She had no idea.
The worst that could happen was also the best. That’s the part nobody tells you—that those two things can be the same night, the same room, the same man.
I look over at him driving.
He’s got one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift, sleeves still rolled up, not looking at me but knowing I’m looking at him, and the corner of his mouth curves into a smirk.
He’s so fucking gorgeous.
I take his hand off the gear shift and hold it. The warmth of his palm heals me.
My monster. My man.
Mine.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
