Page 122 of Ruled By Rivalry

Casually, my eyes flitted his way. Sweet smile on my lips that immediately wiped the frown off his face. “What?” I asked airily.

“I don’t remember you complaining,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Not when you were getting ready in my room because the light was better. Not when I adapted my schedule so you’d always have the bathroom after your runs or when, multiple times, I carried you up the stairs.”

Something swelled in my chest, but then again, something always did when Elliot whispered sweet words or did sweet things or kissed me, a little too long and a little too intently. My love for him grew inside my ribcage like a potted plant that was perfectly cared for.

Sometimes I didn’t know what to do with it all, and then said things like “I did complain when your ex-girlfriend briefly moved in.”

At this point, we could laugh about it. I think. “Moved in seems a little excessive, don’t you think?”

Sweet smile again. “No.”

Elliot laughed, the sound faintly traveling down the street, bouncing off buildings, hopefully not waking the angry accent in one of those redbrick complexes. “She’s been trying to apologize. I’ve got a million missed calls and texts. I’m surprised she hasn’t shown up here.”

The smile on my face sobered just slightly. “She texted me earlier.” Between preparing for what had seemed like the royal family coming over (judging by how big of a deal Elliot made), packing, and cleaning, there hadn’t been a moment to tell him.

Now wasn’t a good time either, but one glance at Paula and Henry, and it was clear they were engrossed in their own conversation. Arguing, in hushed voices, about why she still insisted on staying in her roach-infested studio. My bet was on a guilty conscience because she’d already let Henry pay off her student loans.

“You gave her your number?” Elliot asked.

“No.” I raised my brows. “But I didn’t give you my number either.”

“Touché.” He sighed. “You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” he added. Lips pressed together tightly, arms crossed. Uncomfortable conversation incoming.

“I know. I probably shouldn’t.” But part of me wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, now that Elliot wasn’t anymore.

“But?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She seemed nice when we first met. Wholly focused on you, of course, but nice nonetheless. And I can’t really blame her for still being in love with you.”

Can’t imagine it being easy, getting over someone like Elliot Ashwood. Harder, probably, when you were the one who messed up.

I’d almost pushed him too far to reel back in, and even though I didn’t know it back then—had no clue how to interpret my feelings or what to do with them—my heart had ached at the prospect of losing him. And that was after I’d known the man for two months, not ten years.

“You can’t blame her for still being in love with me.” Elliot hummed, droopy smile back on his lips. “Why’s that?”

For someone who hadn’t wanted me to say it two weeks ago, he’d been very demanding when it came to the L-word since. I can’t sleep before you say it. Don’t you dare hang up on me without the proper goodbye. I love you, now say it back.

And maybe Hunter Ashwood had been right about one thing that night. Elliot was built to love. It’s like it ran through his veins, kept him alive, and almost overflowed his systems, which was why he had so much of it to give. It was almost unfathomable, with how cold the rest of his family seemed.

“Hey,” he complained, nudging my legs, moving to stand between them. “Why’s that?”

My face split into a grin and something fizzled in my stomach because a man I thought I’d barely be able to tolerate three months ago was pouting like a child, demanding to hear three simple words from me.

I rolled my eyes. “Because I love you, Elliot.”

Epilogue

Elliot

Nothing happened.

The last day of the stupid internship came and went. Rowen and I helped Maeve move out of the apartment and into one she could afford. Not as nice as the intern accommodation, but much nicer than Paula’s studio in Brooklyn. (I understood why Henry desperately wanted his girlfriend out of there.)

Maeve officially started as a junior designer at Adeline Ashwood, while I continued working on the foundation. My lawyers never contacted me about a change in the will, my mother never spoke to me about how I should have another conversation with Hunter (“This time he’ll change his mind, I’m sure!”), and a week later, I got a call from my bank, telling me my cards were unblocked and all funds available again.

It was a little disorienting not to feel the consequences of Hunter’s wrath when we’d grown up fearing nothing but. When our upbringing had been a dictatorship, and what (barely) kept us in line all those years was the threat of being called into his office.

It was scary, too. Like any minute, he could change my life dramatically. No more penthouse, no more inheritance, no more foundation.