13. anthony's angel
Emery and Bishop decide to stop playing games.
New to this story? Click below to start from the very beginning and immerse yourself in the journey from the start. You won’t want to miss a single detail!
EMERY
"Word on the street is Edwin Beaumont is trying to marry off his daughter," Pierre announced, his grin as sharp as the razor-thin lapels of his navy suit.
The subtle sheen of his silk tie caught the low light, as if vying for attention, though nothing sparkled as brightly as the smug confidence in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair with a languid ease, the practiced posture of a man who had been groomed to sit at tables like this—and thought he owned them.
His gaze lingered on me a moment too long, appraising, as though I were a painting in one of Roena County’s overfunded galleries. It was a look I’d endured since childhood, back when Pierre Cardone’s family had brought their pristine bloodlines and banking fortune to Westonberry. Light-skinned, impeccably groomed, and carrying the weight of old money like a badge of honor, Pierre had been circling me for years. I hadn’t wanted him then, and now, with his hairline sharpened into perfection and his cologne thick in the air, he still wasn’t worth my time.
But Pierre didn’t know how to take no for an answer—not when it came to me.
"What makes you say that?" I asked, my tone flat, practiced, indifferent. My hand grazed the stem of my wineglass, deliberate and slow, before lifting it to my lips. The 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild slipped over my tongue like liquid velvet, its bold flavor a quiet comfort against the backdrop of this suffocating conversation.
The untouched dessert sat between us like a barrier—a flourish of dark chocolate and gold leaf on a plate that had been crafted more for aesthetics than appetite. I stared past it, my eyes wandering briefly to the gilded walls of Château Cappodilian. The restaurant gleamed with a kind of deliberate opulence—vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and gilded mirrors that reflected back the muted glow of candlelight. This was where the powerful came to conspire, to toast, to quietly sharpen knives behind dazzling smiles. Tonight, it was just another stage for Pierre’s performance.
But I hadn’t come here for him.
I’d chosen this place with precision and purpose, knowing the kind of crowd it attracted. Alistair Bishop loved a scene like this. It was where he thrived, where his magnetism pulled people toward him like moths to a flame. I’d let myself hope—foolishly—that he might stroll through the door tonight, his signature swagger breaking through the tension of this dull charade.
Every few minutes, my eyes drifted toward the entrance, though I was careful to disguise my glances as casual disinterest. Still, I couldn’t stop my pulse from quickening at the thought of his broad shoulders framed by that familiar black coat, or the way his smile could shift a room’s entire energy. But the door remained stubbornly shut, and the silhouette I craved never appeared.
This was a waste.
I set the glass down with a soft clink, the weight of disappointment settling somewhere between my ribs. Pierre continued talking, though his voice faded into the background, a persistent hum I couldn’t be bothered to engage with.
"Edwin wants more Beaumonts, huh? But your brother, he’s—"
"Let’s not," I cut Pierre off, my voice slicing through his words like a knife. The sharpness in my tone froze him mid-sentence, his mouth hovering open for a fraction of a second before he composed himself.
My brother was a closed door, bolted and locked. No one got to touch that topic—not even Pierre.
"Anyway," he said, recovering quickly, the smirk curling back onto his lips like it had never left. "He can’t produce any heirs… Or maybe your father doesn’t want any from him."
I took a measured sip of my wine, the glass cool against my fingertips. The rich red rolled over my tongue, its smoothness doing little to blunt the sharp jab of Pierre’s words. I said nothing, letting the silence stretch between us like a taut wire.
Pierre thrived on reactions, and I refused to give him one.
"You’re a woman, so technically, you can’t produce more Beaumonts either," he continued, his tone light but deliberately needling. "But your father could align you with another powerful family—"
"Pierre," I interrupted, setting my glass down with the faintest clink. My patience was thinning, and I didn’t bother to hide it. "You’re telling me things I already know. Yes, my father is in a state of perpetual panic because I’m thirty-five and unmarried, as if that’s some national crisis. Yes, he’s still fuming that instead of finding a husband in college, like he so graciously funded, I had the audacity to find a career I actually cared about. And yes—"
"So why not align yourself with me?" Pierre cut in smoothly, his smile sharpened to a blade.
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unrelenting, as though he truly believed this was the moment I would finally succumb. His entire pitch—his posture, his tone, his carefully calculated charm—was textbook Pierre Cardone. He wasn’t just offering himself as a suitor; he was positioning himself as the most logical choice, as though love, chemistry, and desire could be whittled down to a pros-and-cons list.
The truth was, Pierre was everything the women of Roena County seemed to want: handsome, impeccably dressed, and poised to inherit a fortune. But to me, he wasn’t even worth the effort of an argument.
My phone buzzed on the table, slicing through his pitch. I glanced down, a small frown tugging at my lips.
An unknown number flashed on the screen.
"Excuse me," I said, barely glancing at Pierre as I picked up the call.
"Hello?"
"Why you playing with me, Emery Beaumont?"
I stilled.
The voice was unmistakable, rough-edged and low, threaded with a tension that made my pulse stutter. Alistair.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice steady despite the sudden rush of adrenaline that shot through me.
"You know exactly what I mean," he growled. "Why are you at dinner with that Great Value version of me right now? You like pissing me off?"
My gaze flicked around the restaurant, scanning the room for any sign of him. My heart was hammering now, pounding against my ribs as though it were trying to escape. But there was no sign of him—no familiar silhouette leaning in the shadows, no dark eyes watching me from across the room.
"That’s none of your business," I said, my voice cool despite the heat rushing through my veins.
"You are my business," he shot back, the weight of his words hitting me square in the chest.
My throat tightened, but I forced myself to respond. "You told me no," I reminded him, my voice slipping into something softer, rawer, angrier. "You said—"
"Fuck what I said!" His voice crackled through the phone, rough and electric. "Take your ass home before I have my boy air that whole restaurant out."
I froze, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The words hung in the air, vibrating with the kind of danger that only Alistair Bishop could summon.
"I haven’t spoken to you in weeks," I said, my voice low and taut, my jaw clenched. "Not since—"
"Go home, Emery. Now," he growled, each word laced with a quiet menace that sent a chill down my spine.
"Everything okay?" Pierre’s voice broke through the fog in my head. His brow furrowed, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and genuine concern.
I forced a smile, my lips curving with practiced ease. "Excuse me, Pierre. I need a moment," I said, smoothing the fabric of my dress with steady hands as I stood.
Every step toward the bathroom felt heavy, the weight of Alistair’s words pressing against my back like a hand steering me out of the room.
"Why are you walking to the back and not out the door?" Alistair’s voice crackled in my ear, low and edged with that commanding tone that could twist my spine into knots. Where was he?
I pushed open the bathroom door with more force than necessary, the ornate brass handle clanging against the marble wall.
"Listen to me, and listen to me good," I hissed, my heels snapping against the polished tile as I stepped inside. The air was cool, laced with the faint, sterile scent of citrus and disinfectant, but even that couldn’t calm the heat rising in my chest.
"You rejected me, Alistair," I spat, gripping the edge of the vanity so hard my knuckles whitened. My voice echoed off the marble walls, bouncing back at me, sharp and unrelenting. "I asked you to consider forever with me, and you said no. You practically kicked me out of your parents’ house."
The words cut through the silence like jagged glass, and my voice cracked despite my best effort to keep it steady. I swallowed the knot in my throat, steeling myself. "I hate you, Alistair."
On the other end of the line, he sighed, a heavy sound weighted with something I couldn’t name but had felt too many times before. Regret? Frustration? Or maybe it was something worse—something that mirrored my own tangled mess of emotions.
"Emery," he said, my name a warning wrapped in rough silk. "Go home. Now. Because if I have to come in there and get you, you’ll be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow."
And just like that, the line went dead.
I stood there, the phone still pressed to my ear as if holding it would somehow undo his words. My chest tightened, the weight of his command pressing against my ribs like a vice.
"Ugh!" The scream ripped out of me, raw and unfiltered, as I stomped my heel against the tile floor. The sharp sound ricocheted through the empty bathroom, a hollow echo that mocked my outburst. It was childish, dramatic, and entirely unlike me—but I didn’t care. The frustration was too much, bubbling over in a way I couldn’t contain.
I hated him.
I hated the way he got under my skin, the way his voice alone could unravel every thread of composure I’d stitched together. I hated the way he always seemed to have the last word, pulling my carefully balanced world out from under me with a single sentence.
But what I hated most was the way I couldn’t stop loving him.
My gaze lifted to the mirror, and there I was—Emery Beaumont, polished, poised, and powerful—except for the faint sheen of tears in my eyes that threatened to betray me. I glared at my reflection, willing it to stay unbroken, but the truth was already staring back at me.
Damn it.
I loved him.
And I hated that for me.
Love wasn’t supposed to be this messy. It wasn’t supposed to upend everything I’d built, wasn’t supposed to pull me out of the world I’d carefully crafted for myself. It wasn’t supposed to make me feel exposed, raw, and entirely at someone else’s mercy. Love was supposed to make sense. To be neat, logical, and manageable—something I could fit into the framework of my life.
But Alistair Bishop? He was none of those things.
He was chaos wrapped in charm, raw and real in a way that both terrified and consumed me. He didn’t care about my last name, or the weight of the Beaumont legacy that everyone else tiptoed around. He never saw me as a prize to be won, a golden ticket to elevate his own image. And unlike the men I’d tried to date outside of Westonberry, he never treated me like a novelty—a "Big Money" trophy to show off at country club events.
No, Alistair wasn’t impressed by me. He challenged me.
Though his family had its own legacy, Alistair wasn’t raised in the sterile bubble of privilege I knew too well. Juniper wasn’t Westonberry. He’d grown up in a world where struggle was real, where names didn’t open doors unless you pried them open yourself. And like me, he wasn’t content to rest on his family’s name. He’d carved out his own path, earned his own respect, and refused to bow to anyone’s expectations.
That was what had drawn me to him in the first place. And it was what made me despise him just as fiercely.
Because I’d offered him my forever. I’d laid it all out for him, raw and unvarnished, and he’d turned me away.
And now here I was, standing in a bathroom at Château Cappodilian, looking like the fool I swore I’d never be. My reflection stared back at me, polished and perfect on the surface, but beneath it, my heart was still tethered to a man I couldn’t seem to outrun.
I blinked back the tears threatening to spill and straightened my posture, smoothing the front of my dress with trembling hands. Crumbling wasn’t an option—not here, not now.
I swiped at my eyes, inhaled sharply, and straightened my posture. With practiced precision, I smoothed the fabric of my dress, erasing any evidence of weakness. The woman in the mirror needed to look composed, untouched by the chaos tightening around her like a noose.
When I returned to the table, I slid seamlessly back into place, clearing my throat delicately.
"Apologies for the interruption," I said, my tone polished, a masterclass in effortless composure.
And then—I saw it.
A red dot.
It hovered on Pierre’s forehead, stark against his smooth skin as he lifted his fork. Oblivious.
My stomach lurched.
The restaurant noise collapsed into silence. The clink of glasses, the soft murmur of conversation, the distant hum of a violin—all of it faded into nothing. The air felt thick, too still, as if the very room was holding its breath.
Alistair.
I didn’t have to turn around to know.
My pulse slammed against my ribs as Pierre—utterly unaware—cut into his filet mignon, the silver glint of his knife catching the candlelight. The red dot didn’t waver.
I forced my fingers to stay still, to keep my face carefully blank even as my mind raced.
Then—
Bzzz.
My phone vibrated against the table, the sound unnervingly loud in the hushed space. The delicate stemware rattled with the force of it.
My breath hitched as I glanced down.
UNKNOWN: Home. Now.
A slow, controlled inhale.
Then I lifted my gaze, my expression unreadable, my heart pounding like a war drum inside my chest.
"Pierre," I said smoothly, my voice silk and steel, "I have to go, actually. But it was lovely catching up with you."
His brows furrowed, concern laced with confusion. "Oh. I was hoping we’d have a chance to discuss what I suggested."
"Perhaps another time," I said, reaching for my clutch with deliberate ease.
Pierre hesitated, then stood with me, ever the gentleman. "Maybe we can try again before you leave town?"
"Yes," I replied, leaning in to press a soft, perfunctory kiss to his cheek.
I walked away without looking back, my heels clicking against the polished floor in a measured rhythm, each step a controlled defiance against the unraveling chaos.
Outside, the night air cut sharp against my skin, cold and biting, the kind of chill that might have been refreshing on a better evening. But tonight, it only amplified the weight pressing down on my chest.
Sliding into my car, I gripped the steering wheel, my nails biting into the leather. The Beaumont estate wasn’t far, but the drive stretched out like an eternity, the road ahead blurred by the storm brewing in my mind.
I hadn’t planned to be in town this long.
But the universe had other ideas.
I was supposed to be a co-anchor by now, reporting breaking news from the controlled warmth of a studio, not freezing my ass off in the middle of a desolate park covering fluff stories about lost pets and holiday tree lightings.
Then the crash happened at D-Truth’s event.
It was tragic. Violent. The kind of story that could change everything. And it was close to home.
I saw my moment.
I had connections—thin, fragile ones, but connections nonetheless. D-Truth’s brother’s best friend. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get me in the door.
But getting to D-Truth himself? That was impossible. The man was a ghost. A name whispered in hushed circles, fiercely private—except when it came to her. His girlfriend.
His return to Juniper wasn’t just tabloid fodder—it was a declaration.
I knew that angle was a dead end. So, I turned to Alistair.
I told myself it was professional—leveraging an old connection, nothing more. I promised my boss I could get the inside scoop, painting the perfect lie with just enough truth to make it believable.
I knew someone at City Hall.
I had ties to D-Truth’s family.
I could get in.
And then I got here.
Not only had I failed to deliver, but I had walked straight into Alistair’s web.
I should have stayed away.
I knew better.
Alistair was a man who played games, and somehow, I always ended up the pawn.
I thought I could keep my heart locked tight this time, that I could approach him as nothing more than a means to an end. But instead, he reminded me exactly why I could never trust him.
His rejection still stung, a fresh wound layered over old scars.
And now, I was stuck—back in Westonberry, back in my parents’ house, and further from my career than ever.
The Beaumont estate rose before me, sprawling and stately, its towering iron gates standing like silent sentinels against the inky sky. Beyond them, the mansion loomed—three stories of white limestone and black wrought iron, its flawless facade bathed in moonlight and the orchestrated glow of lanterns, placed just so to cast it in an ethereal light.
Beautiful. Imposing. Designed to be admired from a distance.
The circular driveway curved like an outstretched arm, welcoming and warning all at once. My tires crunched softly over the gravel as I slowed, the sound swallowed by the eerie stillness of the estate grounds.
Tall, arched windows gleamed like watchful eyes, standing guard over generations of legacy and expectation. Towering white columns framed the entrance, their sheer size enough to remind anyone who approached that the Beaumonts weren’t just wealthy—they were untouchable.
Everything about this house was pristine, curated, unyielding.
Just like my family.
Just like the role I was expected to play.
It had been built to impress.
It had been built to keep people out.
And now, it was closing in around me.
I killed the engine and exhaled, the weight of my own exhaustion pressing into my ribs. A single tear traced a slow, unwelcome path down my cheek.
I swiped it away, barely recognizing the dampness on my fingertips.
Tears?
I hadn’t even realized they had fallen.
A sharp inhale. A slow blink. A practiced smoothing of my features.
Composed. Untouchable.
Before I even reached the door, it swung open.
My father stood in the doorway, his broad frame outlined by the golden light spilling from the foyer. The warmth behind him was deceptive.
He had deep brown skin, the same shade as mine, a smooth, bald head that only emphasized the sharp angles of his face. Almond-shaped eyes, dark and unreadable, took me in with the quiet scrutiny of a man who never missed anything.
He wasn’t the tallest man—5’9 at most—but height had never mattered when it came to presence. Power wasn’t in inches. It was in how a man carried himself. And my father?
He could make a room fall silent without raising his voice.
Could command attention without demanding it.
Could make you feel like a child again with a single look.
Even now, standing on the marble steps beneath him, I felt the familiar weight of his gaze.
I stopped, tilting my chin up slightly.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah," he said, his voice warm as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Just waiting on my baby girl, is all."
I exhaled softly, a ghost of a smile tugging at my lips despite the exhaustion weighing down on me. "How did you know I’d be here—right now?"
"A father’s hunch." He smiled knowingly. "Moms aren’t the only ones who get those… Plus, the security cameras. The gate."
A small, tired laugh escaped me. Of course.
"Can you meet me in the ballroom for a quick drink?" he asked, stepping aside. "There are a couple of things I’d like to go over with you."
I sighed.
This could be anything.
A lecture about why I needed to leave that job, come home, and finally step into my role within the family business.
Or worse—another carefully vetted suitor, someone he thought would be a great match for me, his way of reminding me that I wasn’t getting any younger.
Or maybe worse than that—another speech about his beloved, Alistair.
The one he says I let get away because I’m too damn stubborn. Because I always had to win. Because I never knew when to yield.
Not knowing that his dear Alistair hadn’t wanted me beyond the games we played—beyond the way he’d fuck me like he loved me, only to walk away as if none of it mattered.
Maybe it didn’t.
Maybe I had pushed him too far. Ruined us too many times.
Never mind that he was lowkey a lunatic.
Was he really about to have someone assassinate Pierre Cardone in the middle of dinner—right in front of me?
Psycho. Unhinged.
And yet—mine.
The man who swore marriage between us was a bad idea, but still wouldn’t let me go. I didn’t get it.
Even thinking it sounded insane. But this was our crazy.
And now—
I was nursing a broken heart and a bruised ego, stuck in a place I never wanted to be, with nothing but regrets that tasted like his name on my tongue.
I exhaled slowly, keeping my voice light. "Dad, I’d really like to get some sleep." I moved past him, fingers skimming the edge of my clutch, the only thing I could ground myself with. "Can this wait until morning?"
"No," he said simply.
His tone was firm, but kind, the way only a father’s could be.
He gestured toward the library which doubled as our ballroom, a silent command.
Something flickered through my exhaustion.
I followed.
The library doors creaked open, the heavy wood groaning, and the moment I stepped inside—
The world tilted.
A sharp inhale caught in my throat, my pulse stuttering, then racing.
My worst nightmare and my greatest dream, standing in the same room. Wearing the same face. Looking at me like he’d known I was coming long before I did.
Alistair Bishop.
He stood at the center of the room, his stance wide, unshaken, like he belonged there—like the very air around him recognized him first and adjusted accordingly. The dim glow of the chandeliers carved shadows along his sharp jawline, gilding him in light and darkness all at once.
The space around him didn’t just hold him.
It bent to him.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
But his right hand gripped his left wrist, just for a moment—a tell. Small. Imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him.
But I knew him.
And Alistair Bishop was never tense unless he wanted something.
Behind him, a small band sat poised, instruments ready.
And then—
The first notes of Beauty and the Beast drifted through the air.
Soft.
Rich.
Hauntingly beautiful.
A song made for fairy tales and fools.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I turned to my father, pulse wild, breath shallow.
He smiled.
A secret, knowing smile.
Then, without a word, he quietly shut the door behind me.
Sealing me in.
Trapping me with him.
I spun back to Alistair.
He had stepped closer, his face half-lit by the golden glow of the chandelier. His expression wasn’t the cocky smirk I was used to. It wasn’t cold calculation or amused detachment.
No, this was something different.
Softer.
Disarming.
He extended a hand toward me.
"Dance with me," he said, his voice low, steady, utterly irresistible.
My body betrayed me before my mind could catch up.
One moment, I stood frozen.
The next, I was gliding toward him—drawn by a force I had never been able to fight.
I should have said no.
I should have turned around and walked out of that room, because Alistair Bishop was a trap—the kind you saw coming and still stepped into anyway.
But my body betrayed me before my mind could catch up.
Somehow, I was in his arms.
I didn’t remember reaching for him. Didn’t remember making the choice.
But suddenly, his hand was in mine, warm and sure.
My other rested on his shoulder, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his suit, while his slipped around my waist, pulling me in just enough to remind me that escape had never been an option.
And then—
We began to dance.
The violins swelled, rich and sweeping, curling through the space like a whispered spell.
I looked up, my breath hitching as I met his gaze.
Alistair’s eyes, dark as aged whiskey, flecked with hazel when you were close enough.
I was close enough now.
"Alistair," I whispered, my voice barely louder than the music that wrapped around us.
His lips curved, the smallest, knowing smile, like he had already predicted this moment, like he had been waiting for me to fall into it.
"Emery."
"What… what are we doing?"
"Dancing," he replied simply, as if the answer had always been that easy.
"I know, but…" I trailed off, searching his face for something—an explanation, a sign, anything to make sense of this moment.
But he only held me closer.
"Beauty and the Beast is your favorite Disney movie," he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. "Your dad built this library—this ballroom—for you when you were little because you loved the movie so much. You wanted to be surrounded by books, to feel like Belle."
My breath caught, the air in my lungs turning fragile.
"You remembered me telling you that?"
His fingers tightened slightly around mine, a soft reassurance.
"How could I forget?" he murmured. "This tough girl, who acted like nothing could faze her, loved a Disney movie so much she watched it before every final to calm her nerves. It brought you comfort."
A lump formed in my throat—sharp, unexpected.
Because he was right.
Because he had always been right about me.
And because, even now, even after everything, he still remembered.
Alistair had always seen more of me than I wanted him to. He never bought into the image, never let the armor fool him. And now, standing in the center of a room straight out of my childhood dreams, he was reminding me that he hadn’t just seen me—he had remembered me.
“This is why you called me? Threatened me?” I asked.
His smirk was lazy, knowing, the kind that burned slow, like a lit match dragging toward an open flame.
"Why would you be on a date with another man, Emery?" he murmured, pulling me just a fraction closer, enough for the heat of his body to brush against mine. His fingers, light but possessive, pressed into my waist like he had every right to touch me. Like I still belonged to him.
His next words slid over my skin like silk—low, smooth, and entirely too dangerous.
"When you told me you wanted to marry me?"
A pause. A breath. A single beat before the final blow.
"When you’re mine."
I scoffed, my voice laced with defiance, but my pulse betrayed me, hammering in my ears.
"I’m single, Alistair," I said, my chin lifting, my grip on his shoulder tightening like I could keep myself steady. "Free to do whatever I want. You rejected me, remember?"
His smile deepened. Slowly. Deliberately.
The kind of smile that unraveled things inside me I didn’t want to name.
"Rejected you?" he echoed, his voice dropping into something quiet and lethal, thick with an undercurrent of possession that made my breath catch.
He leaned in, his mouth so close to my ear I felt the whisper of his breath when he spoke.
"Em, you know you’re mine."
A shudder rolled through me. Damn him.
I shook my head, fighting tears, fighting him, but Alistair Bishop had always been too much, too close, too inevitable.
I thought of the night I had worked up the courage to say it.
That I thought we should marry. That he and I were the best match—perfect in every way that mattered.
It had been strategic, yes—because I was always strategic. But it wasn’t just that.
I had wanted him. Needed him.
Because no matter how much logic I applied, my heart still screamed for him.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice rough, hesitant—almost reluctant to ask, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it from my lips.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my vision blurring.
"Yeah," I admitted, barely more than a whisper.
A muscle in his jaw ticked, tension rippling through him like a storm barely held back.
Before I could react, his hand was at my face, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. His touch sent a jolt through me, unraveling every piece of armor I had carefully put in place.
His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of my cheek like he was trying to memorize me, to hold onto something that had always felt just out of reach.
"I don’t wanna hurt you, Emery…" His voice was low, rough. Unsteady.
His thumb swept over my skin again, slower this time.
"Even when we…" His words caught, his breath shallow. He let go of my face, exhaling sharply, and then—
His hands found my waist.
Fingers pressing into the silk of my dress, pulling me closer, like I was the only thing tethering him to this moment.
"Why can’t I have more of this, Em? You being vulnerable with me?" His voice cracked, frustration bleeding into every syllable. "I don’t want to play games anymore. I just want… I want you. Not for an alliance. Not for some power play. Just you."
I swallowed hard, my entire body shaking with the weight of it.
"Alistair," I began, my voice trembling, my heart slamming against my ribs.
His grip tightened. "Say it."
"I’m in love with you," I whispered. The words tumbled out without permission, without walls, without defense. "So much it scares me. So much that I stay away from you because I’m terrified you’ll break me. So much that—fuck…"
"Keep going," he urged, his tone low, insistent, anchoring me as if I was the only thing keeping him standing.
I inhaled, shaky, my chest aching with the truth I could no longer outrun.
"There’s no one else for me, Alistair," I confessed, my voice thick with emotion. "No one."
Something shifted in his expression.
His grip on me tightened, like he had been waiting—aching—for those words.
"No games," I murmured, my forehead pressing against his shoulder, my body sagging into his.
His arms wrapped around me fully, locking me in, against him, with him.
He buried his face in my hair, inhaling like he was taking me into his lungs, into his bloodstream.
And when he spoke again, his voice was softer this time, but still edged in something wild. Something unshakable.
"I love you too, my little mental patient."
A watery laugh bubbled out of me, shaky, disbelieving, wrecked.
His lips brushed my temple, his voice teasing but thick with something heavier.
"You’re sensitive as hell, even though you try to act tough. You overthink everything You’re expensive as shit, smart as hell—" His lips quirked into a smirk, but his voice dropped into something serious again. Something real. "—and you love me. You really love me. And I love you."
I felt his breath against my hair, warm, steady, calming the storm inside me and stirring up a new one all at once.
Then, softer. Quieter.
"That’s why, the morning after I told you I wasn’t marrying you, I was at Mr. Chung’s, working on a ring for you.", he continued.
I froze, my breath catching violently in my throat.
Slowly, I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my pulse hammering.
"What?"
His smile unraveled something deep inside me, something I wasn’t sure I could put back together.
"You wanna see it?"
My fingers curled into his shirt, my nails biting into the fabric like I needed to hold onto something solid.
"Yeah," I whispered, my heart slamming, shaking, breaking, healing all at once.
And then—before I could blink—
He reached into his back pocket.
And dropped to one knee.
Still holding my hand.
The room went silent.
The music. The soft shuffle of the musicians. The crackling of the fireplace.
Everything faded.
Because there was only him.
Alistair Bishop, on one knee.
Looking up at me like I was the only thing he had ever wanted.
And for the first time since I had walked away from him, I let myself believe—
That maybe, just maybe, this was real.
Alistair Bishop—cocky, infuriating, impossible Alistair—was on one knee.
A small velvet box sat in his hand, unopened.
I could hear my own breathing, too loud in the thick silence.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. "You… you said no.", I reminded him, still in shock
"I was wrong.", he said.
His words landed like a stone in my chest, knocking something loose, something I had buried so deep I thought it would never resurface.
I stared at him, searching for some sign of hesitation, some flicker of doubt. But there was nothing. Just him.
Alistair.
On one knee.
Looking up at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
His grip on my fingers tightened, as if he could anchor me in place, as if he was afraid I’d run again.
He exhaled, slow and shaky, before speaking.
"Emery Beaumont… from the first day I laid eyes on you on campus, I knew you were something special."
His voice was low, thick with memory.
"And when we became rivals, I smiled to myself—because I knew that meant more interactions with you, even if they weren’t peaceful."
A ghost of a smirk flickered across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"I wanted to fight with you if it meant being close to you. If it meant you'd notice me."
The lump in my throat tightened.
"And when I couldn’t hold my feelings in any longer—when you couldn’t either—and we finally became a couple…"* He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching before he shook his head, as if the memory physically hurt to recall.
"I was so damn happy, Em."
My breath caught.
"Even though we hid it from everyone, I didn’t care. Because I’d never met anyone—no woman—who really got me, who didn’t want anything from me, who was bold enough to challenge me."
His eyes darkened, burning into mine.
"I loved you then."
My heart stuttered.
"And when we broke up, Em—you broke me." His voice dropped, rough-edged. "That’s when I knew for sure… damn, I love this girl."
I sucked in a breath, guilt slamming into me.
"And when we reconnected at the gala," he continued, softer now, "I just knew this was my chance again."*
Then—he paused.
I felt it before I even saw it.
His mind had drifted somewhere painful.
The one-night stand.
Me leaving him.
The way I had ruined things again, hurt him again.
And now I understood.
It hadn’t just been sex for him.
It had been another chance at us.
And I had walked away.
"I’m sorry," I whispered. My voice was small, but the words felt heavy.
His gaze flicked up to mine, shadows behind his eyes.
"I was scared." I exhaled shakily, forcing myself to say the truth that had been suffocating me for years.
"Scared of what?" he rasped.
I swallowed hard, my pulse throbbing in my throat.
"Scared of how strong my feelings were for you." My hands trembled in his. "Even after years of not seeing you."
Something broke across his expression.
His grip on me tightened.
"I didn’t tell my boys what happened for two fucking years." His voice was gritted, raw, fraying at the edges. "That’s how bad it fucked me up, Em."
The guilt ripped through me, sharp and unrelenting.
His breathing was uneven now, his thumb running over my knuckles, like he was trying to steady himself.
And then—his voice broke completely.
"And yet, here I am."
His gaze never wavered, never faltered.
"On one knee."
"Asking you to be my wife."
His fingers curled tighter around mine, desperate, unshakable.
"Because I fucking love you, Emery."
"I love you so much."
I couldn’t stop the tears if I tried.
They slid down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, soaking into the moment I had fought so hard against but could never escape.
Alistair’s fingers tightened around mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, grounding me in the heat of his touch. His voice dipped low, steady—certain.
"You need me, Emery."
I squeezed my eyes shut, his words hitting places I wasn’t ready to admit were aching.
"Tough as you are to everyone else, you can’t fool me. I know you. I see you. And you need me."
He exhaled sharply, his grip solid, unwavering.
"And…I need you."
Something inside me cracked open.
I nodded before I could think, before my pride could catch up, before I could stop myself from finally telling the truth.
"I do need you," I whispered.
The relief in his expression was instant, devastating.
His breath stilled, his thumb brushing over my skin again, like he was memorizing the moment, feeling the weight of my confession settle into his bones.
Then, his voice deepened, rich with something undeniable.
"So let’s do this."
His fingers tightened around mine, strong, unshaking.
"You submit to me, and I to you."
I shuddered.
"You let me lead." His voice dropped lower, the words intimate, unshakable, consuming. "No games."
A sharp inhale tore from my lips.
Because this was it.
This was the moment. The only moment that had ever mattered.
No more running.
No more walls.
No more power plays.
Just us.
And for the first time in a long time—
I wasn’t afraid anymore.
"Yes." My voice was steady, sure. "I want it all with you, Alistair."
A slow exhale left his lips, his grip tightening around mine, like he needed to hold onto the moment, onto me, onto this finally happening.
Then—his eyes flickered with something deeper.
"Children?" he asked.
A sharp inhale. A question that meant everything.
I didn’t hesitate.
I nodded.
Yes.
Yes, to carrying his name.
Yes, to carrying his legacy.
Yes, to carrying pieces of him inside me, forever.
His jaw clenched—his breathing changed, rougher, heavier.
Then, softer—testing me one last time.
"Your job?"
My chest rose, fell.
"I’ll come home. To you."
The words settled between us, final and unshakable.
I was likely about to be fired anyway. But if I was staying in Westonberry, staying anywhere, it would be for one reason and one reason only.
Him.
His lips parted, like he hadn’t expected that answer to hit so hard.
For the first time in his life, Alistair Bishop was speechless.
Then, he exhaled sharply, biting his lip, his mind moving, thinking, absorbing.
And then—
He opened the box.
And the most stunning ring I had ever seen stared back at me.
Flawless. Massive. Icy white diamonds catching the light like they had been waiting their entire existence to be here, in this moment, on my hand.
"Holy shit." My breath left me, eyes locked on the monument of love nestled in that velvet box as the band played on.
Alistair smirked, but his eyes were soft. Unshakably sure.
"Custom made for you, my baby…" he murmured.
"Alistair," I breathed, my hand already reaching for him.
His grip tightened around mine. His gaze burned into me, steady, unshakable. "Marry me, Emery."
A breath caught in my throat, my pulse hammering.
"Yes!"
The word left me before I could even process it, before I could question it, before anything in the world could take it back.
Alistair smiled—wide, full, like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment. He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my skin before slipping the ring onto my finger. The cool weight of it settled there like it had always belonged.
Then, in one swift motion, he stood, grabbed me, and spun me around.
A laugh burst from my lips as the band continued to play, the music swelling, wrapping around us like a spell. Beauty and the Beast filled the space, the notes rising, climbing toward the crescendo.
He set me back down, but before I could catch my breath, his hands were on my face, and then—
He kissed me.
It was deep, claiming, a kiss that felt like a vow all on its own. My fingers gripped his suit jacket, anchoring myself to him, my world narrowing to only this, only us.
When we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine, his breath uneven, his eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them.
"You’re really gonna marry me, Em? Have my babies?" His voice was thick, raw, and for the first time, I saw it—the tears in his eyes.
I smiled, my own tears slipping down my cheeks. "Yes, Alistair. There’s nothing I want more."
His hands tightened around me.
And then—
We kissed again.
Emery Beaumont, soon to be Emery Bishop.
Iono if I like Alistair. He wasn't interested until she got bold and he turned her down. Seems to me like he got a lot out of hurting her, then comes up from behind to "save her". MEH. I'm sure you will change my mind. Maybe.