Valentine didn’t blink.
"Then let it be forced."
The words landed like a gavel.
Elena made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—and pressed her fingers to her mouth. She looked between them, pleading without speaking, but neither man moved.
Martin’s pulse roared in his ears.
"You think you can force into a marriage I don’t want?" he asked, voice steady but edged with sothing dangerous.
"I think you’ll do what’s necessary," Valentine said. "You always have."
Martin’s laugh was short, cold, humorless.
"Not this ti."
He turned.
Grabbed his keys from the console table.
Stord out of the room without another word.
The front door slamd behind him—hard enough that the chandelier in the foyer swayed.
Elena flinched.
Valentine stared at the closed door.
Then he picked up his phone.
Dialed Katherine.
She answered on the second ring, voice bright and expectant.
"Martin?"
"Valentine," he corrected, tone clipped. "The engagent party is this weekend. No excuses. No postponents. Make sure your family is ready. The announcent goes out Monday morning."
Katherine’s breath caught.
"Valentine... is Martin—"
"He’ll be there," Valentine said. "He’ll smile. He’ll put the ring on your finger. We’ll make sure of it."
He hung up.
Elena stared at her husband.
"You’re really going to do this?"
Valentine looked at her cold, resolute.
"I’m going to save the company. And my son."
Elena turned away.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
Martin didn’t rember starting the car.
One mont he was striding through the rain to the garage; the next he was behind the wheel, engine growling, wipers sweeping rhythmically across the windshield. The city blurred past in wet streaks—streetlights, taillights, neon signs bleeding into the rain.
He drove on autopilot, no destination, no plan, just motion.
His pulse hadn’t slowed since he’d left.
It thundered in his ears, in his throat, in his fingertips.
He kept hearing Valentine’s voice:
*You will marry Katherine. Whether you like it or not. The engagent party is this weekend. No excuses.*
He kept seeing Elena’s face heartbroken, pleading, trying to bridge the gap between the father who demanded obedience and the son who refused to give it.
He kept seeing Fiona’s face in the boutique: cheek red from Clara’s slap, eyes blazing with fury and hurt, the way she’d walked away without letting him explain.
*Worker.*
He’d called her a worker.
He gripped the wheel tighter.
"What the hell is wrong with ?"
The question ca out loud—rough, frustrated.
He had spent years building walls. Years keeping everyone at arm’s length. Years letting Valentine and Elena and the board decide what his life should look like. He’d let Katherine hang on his arm in the lobby because it was easier than fighting. He’d let the arrangent drag on because it was easier than saying no.
And now?
Now he’d let Fiona walk away thinking she was nothing more than an employee.
Because saying the truth out loud—*I’m in love with you, I’ve been in love with you since that night, I want you and our child and a life that isn’t dictated by rgers and boardrooms*—felt too dangerous.
Too real.
Too vulnerable.
He turned onto a quieter street without thinking.
The city lights faded behind him.
He kept driving.
His pulse still raced.
He didn’t know where he was going until he realized he was on the road that led to Lunara Cove.
Her apartnt.
He slowed.
Pulled to the curb across the street from her building.
The lights were on in her corner unit third floor, windows dark.
She must be awake.
Martin stared up at the apartnt.
Did he really co here?
Yes.
He had.
He switched off the engine.
Sat in silence.
Rain tapped on the roof.
He thought about going up.
Thought about knocking on her door.
Thought about telling her everything—Katherine, Valentine, the rger, the fear that had kept him silent, the love that had finally made him speak.
He thought about her face when he’d called her a worker.
He thought about the way she’d walked away.
He thought about how much he’d already hurt her.
He thought about how much more he could hurt her if he pushed now.
He stared at the dark window.
His hands clenched on the wheel.
Then he leaned back in the seat.
Closed his eyes.
And stayed.
In the rain.
In the dark.
Outside her building.
Because walking away felt like giving up.
And he was done giving up on her.
Fiona had been lying on the couch for hours, eyes open in the dark, listening to the rain drum against the window like it was trying to get inside her chest. The apartnt was too quiet without Elara only the refrigerator’s low hum and the occasional creak of the building settling. She hadn’t bothered turning on a lamp. The darkness felt safer, like it could hide the ache that had taken root under her ribs since yesterday.
She wasn’t sleeping.
She was surviving.
She shifted onto her side, blanket pulled to her chin, and glanced toward the window.
A black sedan sat across the street.
Lights off. Engine off. Just... there.
Her heart stuttered.
She knew that car.
She’d seen it pull up outside the Spire too many tis. Seen it idle in the underground garage. Seen it drive away after dropping him off.
Martin.
Fiona sat up slowly, blanket falling to her waist.
"What is he doing here?" she whispered to the empty room.
She stood on unsteady legs. Walked to the window. Pulled the curtain back just enough to see.
Rain streaked the glass, but she could make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat head bowed, hands still on the wheel, staring up at her building like he was waiting for permission to exist.
Her throat closed.
She should ignore him.
She should close the curtain.
She should go back to the couch and pretend she hadn’t seen him.
Instead she moved.
Bare feet silent on the hardwood.
She opened the apartnt door.
The hallway light was dim, but she saw him the second he looked up.
Martin saw the door open.
Saw her standing there sweater too big, hair loose and ssy, eyes red from crying.
He didn’t think.
He just moved.
Dashed across the street through the rain coat flapping, shoes splashing puddles up the stairs two at a ti, breath ragged, heart slamming against his ribs.
Fiona didn’t step back.
She couldn’t.
He reached the doorway.
No words.
Just hands framing her face, thumbs brushing the tear tracks on her cheeks, and his mouth crashing down on hers.
Hard. Desperate. Hungry.
Fiona gasped against him.
Her hands fisted in his wet coat.
She kissed him back fierce, angry, needy like she’d been starving for this exact mont and hadn’t even known it.
Martin groaned low in his throat.
He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss.
His coat hit the floor.
Her sweater followed.
Nothing was going to stop him tonight.
Nothing.
He backed her against the wall hands sliding under her shirt, palms hot against her skin, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. Fiona arched into him, moaning softly, pregnancy hormones lighting every nerve on fire.
She wanted him.
Needed him.
Needed to feel him inside her, deep and real, until the ache in her chest quieted.
Martin tore his mouth from hers just long enough to rasp against her lips:
"I’m sorry."
Fiona shook her head.
"Don’t talk."
She pulled him toward the couch.
He followed.
They fell together clothes shed in frantic pulls, hands everywhere, mouths everywhere.
He kissed down her throat, her collarbone, her breasts slow, reverent, worshipping every inch like he was making up for lost ti. Fiona’s fingers tangled in his hair, urging him lower, hips lifting when his mouth found the soft skin below her navel.
Fiona’s breath hitched.
Martin rose.
Covered her body with his.
Looked into her eyes—dark, raw, pleading.
"Tell to stop," he whispered. "And I will."
Fiona wrapped her legs around his waist.
"Don’t you dare."
He entered her in one slow, deep thrust.
They both groaned—long, broken sounds that echoed in the quiet apartnt.
He moved—slow at first, savoring every inch, every gasp, every tremor. Then faster. Harder. Deeper.
Fiona clung to him nails in his back, mouth on his shoulder, muffling her cries.
He fucked her like a man who had almost lost everything and wasn’t letting go again.
She t every thrust hips rolling, body arching, chasing the pleasure that had been denied too long.
When she ca, it was sudden and shattering—back bowing, na tearing from her throat in a sob.
Martin followed seconds later—burying himself deep, groaning her na like a prayer, spilling inside her with a shudder that shook them both.
They stayed locked together.
Breathing hard.
Sweat-slick.
Rain tapping the window.
Martin pressed his forehead to hers.
"I love you," he whispered. "I’ve loved you since that night. I’m sorry I was too scared to say it sooner."
Fiona’s tears slipped free again.
She cupped his face.
"I love you too," she said. "Even when you’re an idiot."
He laughed—soft, relieved, real.
He kissed her slow, deep, gentle.
No rush.
No desperation.
Just them.
Finally.
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