Page 97 of The Unfluencer

“Even if our marriage was over, there was still love and respect,” I tell Whitney. “She deserves to have the world see her talent. To restore her honor. I need them to know she was more than the hairdryer-hurling Luxe Lady. She was flawed, but she was a friend, an artist, and I want her legacy to live on through a charity I’m finalizing in her name, funded by the sale of her art.”

“We’re going to make sure that happens,” she says.

We, not just me.

The car stops, and the second the driver exits, I rush to add, “When the time is right, yes, I will expose him.”

“Soon?”

Then Whitney’s door opens at the red carpet and Madison Manor sprawls out in front of us, bathed in light with a sea of cameras pointed at us. We’re swept up in the buzz of photographers yelling for us to look this way and that.

“Warner, are you and Whitney together?” one calls out, prompting more focus on us.

Another yells, “Has your relationship status changed? Will there be more Restroom Rendezvous?”

“Can we expect wedding bells soon?”

Yes, I want to shout to the rooftops. But can I first tell her that I’m in madly, deeply in love with her? Is that too much to ask?

As we enter the manor’s pristine halls, her arm tucked in mine, we fall in step with Ellswood’s upper crust dressed in understated elegance, timeless jewels, the quiet signals of old money. Pride blusters in my chest as I imagine Whitney’s reaction later tonight, when I finally confess my love and ask if she wants to take whatever step comes next—moving in together, disappearing again, marrying me.

Under the magic of the legendary grand ballroom chandelier, I stop in front of her.

“May I have the honor, my love?” I ask, loving the way her eyes light up at the endearment as I quietly inch toward confessing everything by the end of the night. I’m hoping she’ll come home with me. With any luck, for the rest of my life.

As the light, tinkling notes of the string quartet drift into the air, we sway together, holding each other, lost in each other’s gazes.

“Yes,” I say softly. “To your earlier question. Timing is everything, but I’m almost ready to expose him, so I can finally move on to sunflower pastures.”

She laughs. “Isn’t it supposed to be greener pastures?”

“Your eyes aren’t green,” I mutter. “They’re the earth specked like a field of sunflowers. Way better.” I chuckle, tracing a tender symphony across her back with my fingertips.

A slow crinkle builds behind her fringed lashes. “Is that so, Mr. Easton?”

“It is.”

We’re both cheesing hard as I list the cons of exposing Zeek prematurely. More headlines, more scandal, more chaos in this already messy city. Even though I stress that the timing has to be right, she fires back, ticking off some really convincing pros: protecting other Luxe Ladies, uncovering what Sherry went through to shut down any negativity about her. And making the collection practically priceless certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“I’ve got everything ready to send to my contact at the Ellswood Times. I just haven’t hit send yet.” I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her rebuttal.

“Well… I think Monday is as good a time as any.”

“Do you, now?” I chuckle, holding her gaze before I dip her.

She snaps upright, giggling, but my heart is pounding, my pulse racing.

Just past one of the server’s shoulders, I spot Cord across the room. He’s talking to Whitney’s assistant, and they’re both staring at us. The choice to avoid Cord wasn’t just about Sherry’s drive. I haven’t shared updates about Whitney, and I’m not about to. Not before I tell her first.

“Hey, I’m going to run and try to catch that server.” I smile at her. “Grab us some champagne.”

“Good idea.”

With a quick kiss on her cheek, I step away in the nick of time.

It’s not Cord who stops me, though.

“Hey there, it’s nice to finally meet you in person, Warner. I’ve heard so many great things about you from Whit.”