Claire Rowan had told herself the dress was a tool, not a luxury. That was the only way she could justify the emerald silk clinging to her ribs like it knew her bank balance and wanted to gossip about it. She’d bought it on a credit card she swore she wouldn’t touch again, then stared at the receipt in her kitchen while Sophie, five years old and made of sunshine and questions, practiced tossing imaginary flower petals at the hallway mirror. “Mommy, do I look like a real fairy?” Sophie had asked, and Claire had smiled because mothers were built to smile through math problems that didn’t add up. A cousin’s wedding in Boston’s Seaport district wasn’t just a party, it was a parade of unspoken comparisons. Who arrived with a plus one. Who wore a ring. Who looked like life had been kind to them lately.

Now, in the Seaport Grand Hotel ballroom, Claire sat alone at table nineteen, so far from the head table she half expected a different zip code on the centerpiece. The room glittered with crystal chandeliers and the kind of florals that looked like they’d been arranged by someone who had never once checked a grocery total. Champagne fizzed in her glass, and she sipped it slowly, not because she loved it, but because holding something cold kept her hands from shaking. Across the dance floor, Sophie twirled with the other flower girls under the watchful eye of Claire’s Aunt Donna, tiny heels tapping out a rhythm of pure, uncomplicated joy. Claire’s chest tightened with something like pride and something like grief. Sophie was having a wonderful night. Claire was counting minutes between polite smiles.

“You look like you’re plotting an escape route,” a deep voice said behind her, amused, as if he’d caught her with a map.

Claire turned so quickly her champagne nearly sloshed over the rim. Standing there, like a rumor made solid, was Miles Kensington.

He was her CEO.

He was also, inconveniently, the kind of man magazines tried to invent when sales were low: six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, dark hair that always looked intentionally messy, and eyes the color of bourbon left too long in a glass. Miles ran Archer Lane Publishing with the smooth brutality of someone who could read a room the way other people read weather, and he rarely descended into the middle floors where acquisitions editors like Claire lived. In three years at Archer Lane, she’d exchanged maybe ten sentences with him, most of them in elevators that smelled like coffee and expensive cologne. Seeing him here, at her cousin Tessa’s wedding, felt like spotting a tiger in a grocery aisle. Wrong setting. Wrong rules.

“Mr. Kensington,” she managed, painfully aware of the tiny tear near her hem she’d stitched this morning in a panic, and the lipstick smudge she could still feel like a secret.

He gave her a small smile, the kind that rewrote his usually serious face. “Miles, please. We’re not at work.” He nodded toward the head table where Tessa and her new husband, Harrison Lowell, were basking in the attention of people who looked like they’d never eaten a meal over a sink. “Harrison and I were roommates at Dartmouth. I’m surprised we haven’t collided at one of these events before.”

Of course. Harrison had always moved in circles that were clean and polished and insulated from the noisy reality of daycare pickup lines and overdue notices. Claire had grown up in the same extended family but somehow ended up on a different track, one that required budgeting and negotiation and doing her own taxes. That Miles Kensington belonged to Harrison’s world shouldn’t have shocked her. It did anyway, because she hadn’t prepared for it emotionally.

“May I?” Miles asked, gesturing to the empty chair beside her at the otherwise abandoned table.

Claire nodded, and the simple movement felt strangely formal, like she’d signed something.

He sat with a casual grace that made every other man in a tux look like he was wearing a costume. “Claire Rowan,” he said, as if tasting the name for accuracy. “Acquisitions and development. You’re the reason our most promising titles aren’t still collecting dust in someone’s email.”

Claire blinked. “You… know who I am.”

His smile deepened, and she noticed, absurdly late, a dimple in his right cheek. “I make it my business to know who’s responsible for the work that matters.” He lifted his glass slightly. “The ‘Riverlight’ romance series you acquired last year is outperforming projections by twenty-six percent.”

The words landed in her chest like a warm stone. Claire had fought for that series for months, arguing in meetings, persuading skeptical marketing people, coaxing a shy author into believing her own talent. Hearing that he’d noticed, that he’d tracked it, made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t expected to crave. It also made her suspicious, because attention from powerful people rarely arrived without a hook.

“Thank you,” she said carefully. “I believed in those books.”

“And you were right.” His gaze moved, briefly, to Sophie dancing, then back to Claire. “But tell me something. Why are you exiled back here?

You’re family.”

Claire’s laugh was small and sharp. “Family doesn’t always translate to front-row seating.”

Before he could respond, a commotion flared near the edge of the dance floor. Sophie stood frozen, her pale pink flower-girl dress splattered with red wine, tears trembling in her big blue eyes. A waiter hovered, mortified, apologizing so quickly he could barely breathe.

Claire pushed her chair back, panic rising like a tide. Sophie’s dress wasn’t just a dress. It was the one Claire had borrowed from a friend, altered by hand, and promised she’d return spotless. It was also Sophie’s pride, the costume she’d worn all day like a crown.

“Excuse me,” Claire said, already halfway up.

Miles touched her arm lightly. “Let me.”

She looked at him, startled.

“I have nieces,” he added, as if that explained everything. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket like he’d planned for disasters. “I’m good at this.”

Before she could protest, he crossed the floor with long, easy strides. Claire watched, half disbelieving, as the intimidating CEO of Archer Lane Publishing knelt to Sophie’s level and spoke to her like she was the most important person in the room. He produced a quarter from behind her ear in a small magic trick that made Sophie gasp, then giggle through her tears. “See?” he whispered conspiratorially, dabbing gently at the stain. “Invisible ink. Only brave flower girls can see it.”

Sophie’s face brightened like someone had turned the lights back on. When Miles guided her back to Claire’s table, Sophie bounced on her toes, chattering. “Mommy, Mr. Miles says the ink disappears if I do a spin!”

“Does it?” Claire asked, voice thick, kneeling to smooth Sophie’s hair.

“Only if it’s a really good spin,” Miles said gravely, and Sophie spun once, squealing.

Aunt Donna swooped in, relieved, and Sophie took off again, crisis already dissolving into childhood’s incredible ability to move on. When Claire turned back, Miles had reclaimed his seat, as if he hadn’t just performed emotional triage in the middle of a ballroom.

“Thank you,” Claire said quietly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

His eyes followed Sophie with a warmth that didn’t match his boardroom reputation. “I wanted to.”

The sincerity made Claire’s defenses wobble. She steadied herself by focusing on something safer. “So… Dartmouth. You and Harrison. That explains your presence.”

“It explains why I’m here,” he agreed. “It doesn’t explain why I’m sitting with you.”

Claire lifted a brow. “Is there a reason?”

For the first time, something vulnerable flickered across his features before his confidence returned, like a curtain briefly pulled aside. “Maybe I’m tired of people who only see the CEO and not the person.”

Claire didn’t know what to do with that. It wasn’t flirtation exactly. It was confession shaped like casual conversation. She opened her mouth, searching for an appropriate response, when her cousin Tessa appeared, glowing and slightly breathless in her gown.

“Claire!” Tessa said, eyes darting between Claire and Miles. Curiosity bloomed fast, as if it had been waiting for a spark. “There you are. I didn’t realize you knew Miles Kensington.”

“We work together,” Claire said quickly, as if that would erase whatever story Tessa was already writing in her head.

“Miles,” he corrected gently, standing to kiss Tessa’s cheek with practiced ease. “And Claire is one of our most talented editors. She has an exceptional eye for stories that resonate.”

Tessa’s eyebrows rose. “Why did you never tell me you were basically running publishing from the shadows?” She glanced at the seating chart as if it had personally offended her. “You should be up front with us.”

Claire felt heat crawl up her neck. She didn’t want to be “rescued” into a better table like she was an embarrassed charity case. But before she could protest, Tessa’s attention snapped to Miles. “And you, sir, are supposed to give a toast in twenty minutes. Harrison is looking everywhere.”

Miles grimaced. “Duty calls.”

As Tessa drifted away, Claire surprised herself by feeling a pang of disappointment. She hadn’t expected to enjoy talking to him, hadn’t expected to feel lighter at a table meant for leftovers. Miles leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Save me a dance?”

Claire’s heart stuttered at the simplicity of the request. She was about to answer when her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced down, and the color drained from her face.

SORRY CLAIRE. EMERGENCY. CAN’T MAKE IT TONIGHT.

Her babysitter.

Her mind sprinted through options. There weren’t many. Her apartment in Quincy was nearly an hour away, and Sophie was mid-fairyland. Claire had promised her this night would be special, that her mother wasn’t always the tired one saying no. Now reality had arrived with its usual timing, sharp and inconvenient.

“You look like you just read a medical report,” Miles said, the humor gone from his tone.

“My babysitter canceled,” Claire whispered. “Family emergency.” She swallowed. “I have to take Sophie home, but she’s having such a good time. And… we drove in with my aunt. I don’t even have my car here.”

Miles’s gaze sharpened, assessing not her, but the situation. Then he leaned in, voice low enough to be private even in a room full of music. “I have a suite here at the hotel for after the reception. You and Sophie can use it tonight if you need to stay over.”

Claire stared, trying to find the angle. “That’s generous, but I can’t impose.”

“I won’t even be in it,” he said quickly. “I’m staying with Harrison and some old friends at his family’s place. The suite would sit empty.”

Before Claire could form a response, a photographer approached, clapping his hands. “Let’s get one of the happy couples over here!”

Claire opened her mouth to correct him, but the photographer was already raising the camera, already framing them like a story he’d decided was true. Miles’s hand slid under the table and found Claire’s fingers. His touch was warm and steady, the kind of contact that suggested certainty, and it shocked her how much she wanted to hold on.

He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Pretend I’m your husband tonight,” he whispered. “Just for the wedding. It’ll be easier than explaining. And I’ve seen how your cousin’s friends look at you, the pity they hide behind smiles when they think you’re not watching.”

Claire froze, heartbeat thundering. The rational part of her mind screamed that this was her boss, that this was unprofessional, that this was how people ended up whispered about in hallways. But another part of her, the part that had endured years of lonely dinners and polite questions about “how she was holding up,” whispered something softer and more dangerous: Just once, wouldn’t it be nice to be on the other side of the pity?

“All right,” she heard herself say. “Just for tonight.”

Miles’s smile was both triumph and promise as he slid an arm around her waist for the photograph, drawing her close enough that the world briefly blurred at the edges. “Trust me,” he murmured. “By morning, no one will be pitying Claire Rowan anymore.”

The pretense began like a coat thrown over her shoulders, meant to block cold stares. But once it was on, it warmed her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Miles guided her through conversations with Boston’s polished elite as if she belonged there, introducing her as the editor who kept Archer Lane’s bestseller list stacked. He didn’t exaggerate. He didn’t reduce her to an accessory. He gave her credit in rooms where credit was currency.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Claire murmured later, as they swayed on the dance floor beneath chandeliers that looked like captured starlight. His hand rested lightly at her waist, respectful but present.

“At dancing?” he asked.

“At pretending.”

He spun her gently, bringing her back a fraction closer than before. “Who says I’m pretending?”

The question hung between them, too charged to touch safely. Claire shifted topics like a woman stepping around a loose floorboard. “Your toast was… beautiful. I didn’t realize you and Harrison were so close.”

Something shadowed Miles’s expression. “We were. Time has a way of sanding edges off friendships, sometimes until there’s nothing left to hold.”

“What changed?”

His gaze flicked toward the crowd, toward the people who watched him like he was a bank vault with legs. “Success changes relationships. People expect things from you, or they assume you’ve changed when you haven’t.” He looked back at her, voice quieter. “That’s why this is… refreshing. You don’t treat me like I’m made of money.”

Claire laughed softly. “That’s because I saw you spill coffee all over yourself in the elevator last Christmas.”

His surprised laugh warmed her skin. “You remember that?”

“It’s hard to forget the CEO of Archer Lane Publishing swearing at his tie like it betrayed him.”

Miles’s smile softened into something real. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

When the music ended, Claire spotted Sophie yawning near the dessert table. Reality, like a responsible aunt, tapped Claire’s shoulder. “I should get her to bed,” she said. “It’s way past her bedtime.”

Miles slipped a keycard into her palm. “Suite 1217. Take your time. I’ll make excuses if anyone asks.”

Thirty minutes later, Sophie was asleep in one of the suite’s bedrooms, curled around her stuffed rabbit like it was a lifeline. Claire stood barefoot in the living area, surrounded by quiet luxury: a skyline view, a kitchen she didn’t know how to use, furniture that looked too expensive to sit on. She pressed her palm to the cool window glass and tried to understand how she’d gone from lonely table nineteen to a hotel suite reserved for people who didn’t check their accounts before grocery shopping.

A soft knock startled her. She opened the door to find Miles in the hallway, bow tie undone, hair slightly rumpled, carrying a leather duffel.

“Sorry,” he said, staying in the threshold instead of stepping in. “I forgot my overnight bag earlier.”

“Of course,” Claire said, stepping aside.

He retrieved it from the closet, then paused as if reluctant to leave. The warmth of the ballroom had faded, replaced by the kind of quiet where truth had room to stretch.

“Miles,” Claire said, unable to swallow the question any longer, “why are you really doing this? The pretending. The suite. The kindness. You barely spoke to me for three years.”

His jaw tightened, not with anger, but with something like frustration at himself. “Would you believe me if I said I was just being decent?”

“In my experience,” Claire said carefully, “powerful men don’t do decent things without a reason.”

His eyes hardened. “That says more about the men you’ve known than about me.”

Claire crossed her arms, defensive because it felt safer than being hopeful. “You can’t blame me for being cautious.”

“Is that why you turned down every promotion I authorized for you over the last two years?” he asked, sudden and sharp.

Claire stared. “What?”

“Three times,” Miles said, voice low. “I approved moving you up to senior editor with a significant raise. Three times you declined. I assumed you wanted the flexibility for Sophie.”

The room tilted. Claire’s stomach dropped cold. “That’s impossible. I’ve never been offered a promotion. Not once.”

Silence thickened, heavy enough to press on her ribs. Miles went very still, as if his body understood the impact before his mind finished calculating it.

“Victor Lang,” they said at the same time.

Victor Lang, Archer Lane’s editorial director. Miles’s old friend. The man directly above Claire in the hierarchy, who had always treated her like an inconvenience that kept winning. Claire felt anger rise, sharp and clean. Years of stalled projects, of credit siphoned away, of authors reassigned without explanation suddenly rearranged into a pattern so obvious it was almost insulting.

“He told me you weren’t interested in advancement,” Miles said slowly, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “That you preferred your current role.”

Claire’s voice trembled. “He never told me anything. He just kept handing me more work and less recognition.”

Miles set his bag down with deliberate care, as if trying not to break anything else. “That ends Monday morning.”

“Miles,” Claire said, suddenly exhausted, “you’re my boss. This situation is already complicated.”

His gaze softened, regret flickering. “I know. And I’m sorry. I should have paid closer attention.”

The apology wasn’t theatrical. It was plain. It landed harder because of that.

A small voice came from the bedroom doorway. “Mommy?”

Sophie stood there in princess pajamas, clutching her rabbit, eyes glossy with sleep. When she spotted Miles, her face lit. “Mr. Miles! Did you come for a sleepover too?”

Claire tensed, instinctively bracing for awkwardness, for distance, for the polite discomfort she’d seen in men who didn’t know what to do with children. Miles simply crouched to Sophie’s level, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I just came to make sure you and your mom were comfortable,” he said gently. “I heard there might be a dragon under the bed.”

Sophie nodded solemnly. “It was chasing us.”

“That’s serious business,” Miles agreed, matching her gravity. He produced a quarter again, and Sophie’s eyes widened like doors opening. “Remember? Brave flower girls can do magic. Dragons hate that.”

As Miles taught her the simple trick, patiently repeating it until Sophie’s fingers managed a clumsy version, Claire watched with a knot in her throat. It wasn’t just kindness. It was presence. It was the way he listened, the way he didn’t rush, the way he treated her daughter’s fear like it mattered.

After the dragon inspection and one more magical demonstration, Sophie let Claire tuck her in. When Claire returned, Miles stood by the window again, pensive, as if the city lights were spelling out decisions he didn’t want to make.

“My ex isn’t in the picture,” Claire said quietly, surprising herself. The truth slipped out because the room felt safe enough to hold it. “He left before Sophie was born.”

Miles turned, expression careful. “His loss.”

Claire gave a bitter little laugh. “I used to think that. He’s a musician. He finally got his big break six months after he walked out. I saw his face on a billboard near Fenway last year.”

Understanding sharpened in Miles’s eyes. “Liam Mercer.”

Claire blinked. “You know him?”

“My niece played his last album until I thought I’d start hearing it in my dreams,” Miles said, then sobered. “No wonder you don’t trust men with ambition.”

The observation stung because it was true.

When Miles finally left, the suite felt too quiet. Claire lay awake long after Sophie’s breathing steadied, replaying his words, his apology, the way his hand had held hers under the table like he could anchor her to something. She told herself it was an act that had ended with the last dance. But her heart didn’t listen.

Monday arrived with fluorescent honesty. Claire stepped into Archer Lane’s gleaming lobby with Sophie’s sticky goodbye kiss still warm on her cheek and her mind churning. She’d spent Sunday forcing herself to treat the wedding like a strange dream. Now she needed to be Claire Rowan, professional, composed, unromantic.

The elevator doors opened to reveal Victor Lang, smug as ever.

“Recovered from your illness?” he asked, tone slick with condescension. “I heard you left early Friday.”

“Good morning, Victor,” Claire said evenly. “Yes, thank you.”

He leaned in slightly. “I’ll need the Dunne manuscript on my desk by noon. Marketing has questions.”

Claire felt the familiar twist of anger. The Dunne manuscript was her discovery. Victor had been taking her projects and presenting them like trophies. She kept her smile, because rage at 9 a.m. was messy. “The author requested my feedback on the new chapters. I’ll send my notes.”

Victor’s smile tightened. “Forward anything relevant.”

As the elevator stopped, Victor added, almost casually, “Board meeting at ten. Department heads only.” His eyes flicked over her like she was a stain. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

The doors closed, sealing in his smirk.

At 9:57, Claire’s phone chimed with a text from an unknown number.

BOARDROOM. 10:00. DON’T BE LATE. M.

Her heart kicked. How had Miles gotten her number? And why was he summoning her to a meeting Victor had explicitly said she wasn’t invited to?

At 10:01, Claire slipped into the boardroom. The leadership team sat around the table, crisp and startled. Victor’s face registered shock, then fury. At the head, Miles Kensington looked like the CEO again: immaculate suit, controlled expression, no trace of the man who’d knelt on a hotel carpet to ward off imaginary dragons.

“Ms. Rowan,” Miles said, voice professionally cool, “thank you for joining us. Please take a seat.”

Claire sat, pulse loud in her ears. Victor’s glare burned across the table like a warning.

Miles folded his hands. “Effective immediately, we’re making organizational changes. Victor Lang will be transitioning out of his role as editorial director.”

The room went silent, as if someone had unplugged the air.

Victor half rose. “This is outrageous. On what grounds?”

“On the grounds of sabotaging company operations, withholding promotion offers from qualified staff, and falsifying communications to senior management,” Miles said, tone glacial. “HR has compiled a report. Legal is prepared to pursue further action if necessary.”

Claire’s stomach flipped as whispers erupted. Miles continued, relentless, as if he hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “In the interim, Claire Rowan will assume the responsibilities of editorial director while we evaluate permanent restructuring.”

Claire froze. The words didn’t fit in her mind. Promotion. Power. Visibility. All the things she’d wanted, and all the things she’d feared.

After the meeting, Miles asked her to stay behind. Victor lingered in the doorway, face dark. “You’ll regret this,” he said quietly, eyes cutting between them. “Both of you.”

When the door closed, Claire exhaled shakily. “What just happened?”

“Justice,” Miles said. He loosened his tie slightly, the smallest crack in his armor. “And an apology I should have given you sooner.”

“You just put a target on my back,” Claire said, voice tight. “People will assume favoritism. They’ll assume…”

“That you slept your way up,” Miles finished, meeting her gaze. “I know.”

Claire flinched, then hated herself for it. He slid a folder across the table. Inside was evidence: emails redirected, HR documents altered, promotion letters never delivered. A paper trail that turned Victor’s sabotage from suspicion into fact.

“This promotion is merit-based,” Miles said firmly. “Anyone who suggests otherwise will have a very uncomfortable conversation with legal.”

Claire stared at the documents, anger and relief tangling. “How did you do this so fast?”

“I’ve had suspicions for months,” Miles admitted. “Your situation gave me a reason to dig without hesitation.”

“And what about Sophie?” Claire asked, voice softer but more urgent. “This role means late nights. Travel. I’m a single mom.”

“Then we adapt,” Miles said simply. “If Archer Lane can’t modernize for working parents, we deserve to lose talent. You’ll set the precedent.”

The weeks that followed were exhausting, but not empty. Claire worked harder than she thought possible, buoyed by the strange new feeling of being allowed to succeed openly. Miles kept professional distance in meetings, but behind the scenes he backed her decisions, defended her authority, and quietly ensured she had flexibility for Sophie’s schedule. Claire told herself that was leadership, nothing more. Still, sometimes she caught his gaze lingering a beat too long, as if they were both remembering the wedding dance and choosing not to touch it.

Three weeks later, on a rare night when Sophie had a sleepover with Aunt Donna, Claire was still at her office reviewing acquisition contracts when a knock came.

Miles stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, jacket off, looking less like a headline and more like a man running on stubbornness.

“Still here?” he asked.

Claire set down her pen. “Catching up.”

“Have you eaten?”

“A granola bar,” she admitted.

“That’s not dinner,” he said, and the statement carried the weight of an order disguised as concern. “There’s a Thai place around the corner that stays open late. Come with me.”

Claire hesitated, thinking of gossip, of headlines, of how easily people turned a woman’s competence into a rumor. But hunger and loneliness were persuasive, and she was tired of living like fear was her only advisor. “Fine,” she said. “As colleagues.”

“As colleagues,” he agreed, and something in his eyes suggested he understood the compromise.

Over curry and quiet conversation, they talked about books and authors and the weird dramas of publishing that felt less dangerous than the dramas of the heart. When they’d finished, Miles set his fork down, expression sharpening.

“There’s something you should know,” he said. “Victor Lang has been meeting with executives at Halcyon Books.”

Claire’s stomach tightened. Halcyon was Archer Lane’s fiercest competitor. “You think he’s giving them information?”

“I know he is,” Miles said. “He’s targeting your authors, trying to convince them to break contracts.”

Claire’s mind raced to the “Riverlight” author, who’d recently sounded strangely hesitant on the phone. “What do we do?”

“We fight back,” Miles said. “Starting with the author retreat this weekend in Vermont.”

“Vermont is in three days,” Claire said, already hearing Sophie’s protests. “I can’t possibly…”

“Bring her,” Miles said simply. “The resort has childcare. This retreat matters, Claire. If Victor is making moves, we need to lock in trust.”

The way he said “we” sent an unwanted shiver through her. We, like a team. We, like a family. She forced herself to focus on the business threat, not the dangerous warmth creeping into her chest. “I’ll make arrangements,” she said.

Friday afternoon brought them to Lakecrest Lodge near Stowe, tucked into mountains painted with autumn like nature had decided to show off. Sophie pressed her face to the car window, squealing whenever she spotted a river or a bridge. Claire tried to let herself enjoy it, but a thread of tension ran through her, pulled tight by Victor’s threats and the complicated gravity between her and Miles.

At check-in, the receptionist frowned at her computer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Rowan. I don’t have a reservation under your name.”

Claire blinked. “That’s impossible. Archer Lane booked a block of rooms.”

The receptionist checked again, sympathy already forming. “All Archer Lane rooms are assigned. There’s nothing under Rowan, and we’re fully booked.”

Sophie tugged Claire’s blazer. “Mom, I’m hungry.”

Claire felt panic bloom behind her eyes. Three hours of driving, a restless child, and now this. She was about to ask about nearby hotels when Miles’s voice came from behind her.

“What seems to be the problem?”

Claire turned to find him approaching, dressed casually in jeans and a navy sweater that made him look unfairly human. “There’s been a mistake,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Apparently I don’t have a room.”

Miles’s brow furrowed. “That’s impossible. I confirmed the bookings myself.”

A terrible suspicion slid into Claire’s mind like a knife. “Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake,” she murmured, only for him. “Victor still has contacts.”

Understanding darkened Miles’s expression. He turned back to the receptionist. “What about my accommodation?”

“Presidential suite,” the receptionist said quickly. “Two bedrooms.”

Miles nodded decisively. “Perfect. Ms. Rowan and her daughter will be staying there.”

Claire’s head snapped toward him. “Miles, no. We can’t share a suite.”

“It’s a two-bedroom suite,” he said calmly. “Unless you’d prefer to drive back to Boston tonight.”

Sophie perked up. “Are we having a sleepover with Mr. Miles?”

Miles crouched to Sophie’s level, smile warm. “Only if you promise to teach me some new magic tricks this weekend.”

Sophie launched into enthusiastic explanation, and Claire felt herself cornered by logistics and by the unsettling fact that the arrangement didn’t feel frightening. It felt… easy. Too easy.

That night, as they walked to the lodge restaurant, Claire glanced back and saw a man watching from the lobby: Victor Lang, newly arrived, his gaze sharp and satisfied, as if he’d orchestrated this scene like a cruel chapter ending.

Dinner became a strange performance. Sophie chatted happily, Miles helped her sound out menu words, and Claire felt the weight of eyes on them, measuring, judging, recording. A woman with elegant silver-gray hair approached their table, her smile bright.

“Miles Kensington,” she said warmly. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding the mingling entirely.”

Then she turned to Claire. “And you must be Claire Rowan.”

Claire’s pulse jumped. The woman was Genevieve Hart, literary royalty, the author whose novels had sold tens of millions and kept Archer Lane solvent through several industry crises.

“Ms. Hart,” Claire managed, standing. “It’s an honor.”

“Genevieve,” the author corrected, waving away formality, then smiled at Sophie. “And who is this young lady?”

“I’m Sophie,” Sophie announced proudly. “And I know magic.”

Genevieve laughed, delighted, and pulled up a chair like she belonged everywhere. Throughout dinner, she talked craft and character arcs while Sophie demonstrated her quarter trick and Miles played along like this was the best meeting of his week. When Genevieve commented, “You make a lovely family,” Claire almost corrected her, but then she noticed Victor watching from across the room, his expression calculating.

Strategically, letting Genevieve believe the “family” narrative protected Claire. It turned her from an isolated target into part of a unit the industry respected. The realization tasted bitter, but it was true. Claire hated that she had to play chess with her own life. Still, she held the line of the performance because Sophie was happy and because Victor was dangerous.

Later, after Sophie fell asleep, Claire found Miles by the suite window staring out at the moonlit lake. He held a glass of whiskey like it was a thought he hadn’t swallowed.

“You never answered my question,” he said without turning. “Do you think I’m pretending?”

Claire approached cautiously, staying a careful distance away. “I don’t know what to think. One moment you’re my boss, the next you’re… this.” She gestured vaguely toward the suite, the lodge, the strange shape of them together. “And Victor is watching every move like he’s waiting for us to blink.”

Miles turned, expression unguarded. “Have you considered that it might all be genuine?”

“Why?” Claire asked, the word escaping before she could soften it. “Why me?”

He set his glass down and took one step closer. “Because the night I saw you alone at that wedding table, something clicked. The way you were holding it together with a smile that didn’t match your eyes. The way you watched Sophie like she was your whole world and still managed to keep the room from seeing how hard it was.” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking less like a CEO and more like a man fighting his own fear. “I’ve watched your work for years, Claire. Your integrity. Your talent. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel something.”

Claire’s throat tightened. Her instincts screamed to retreat behind her walls. But Sophie’s soft breathing from the other room reminded her what she could lose.

“I can’t risk my daughter,” Claire whispered. “I can’t risk my career.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Miles said. “I’m asking you to stop assuming you have to do everything alone.”

A sharp knock interrupted them. Miles moved to the door, checked the peephole, and his expression darkened. He opened it to a security guard.

“Mr. Kensington,” the guard said, professional and tense, “someone accessed the conference room where tomorrow’s contract negotiations are set up. Confidential materials were photographed.”

Claire’s blood went cold. “Victor.”

Miles’s posture shifted into CEO mode instantly. “Stay here,” he told Claire. “Lock the door. I’ll handle it.”

When he left, the suite felt charged, full of interrupted truth and looming threats. Claire tried to sleep but couldn’t. Around midnight, she opened her laptop to check work email, desperate for something concrete to focus on. A new message sat in her inbox from an unfamiliar address.

SUBJECT: PROOF OF KENSINGTON’S MANIPULATION

Her pulse quickened. Against her better judgment, she clicked.

Attached were photos taken through restaurant windows earlier, images of her, Miles, and Sophie looking like a family. Beneath them was a short message that hit like poison:

DID HE TELL YOU ABOUT THE BET? ASK KENSINGTON ABOUT OUR DARTMOUTH WAGER. ASK HOW MUCH HE STANDS TO WIN BY GETTING YOU INTO HIS BED.

Claire stared, nausea rising. A bet. A college game. Something juvenile and cruel. It sounded ridiculous, but it also sounded just plausible enough to hook into her worst fear: that powerful men treated people like prizes.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Miles:

SECURITY ISSUE CONTAINED. VICTOR CAUGHT ON CAMERA. ESCORTED OFF PREMISES. WILL EXPLAIN IN MORNING. SLEEP WELL.

Claire didn’t reply. The accusation echoed too loud. She didn’t know which voice to trust: the evidence of Miles’s kindness, or the old survival instinct that remembered Liam walking away and never looking back.

By dawn, Claire made a decision that felt like swallowing glass. She woke Sophie early, packed quietly, and left a note for Miles about a “family emergency.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Her family’s emotional safety was on the line.

The drive back to Quincy gave her too much time to think. She replayed every touch, every look, every moment that had felt real. Then she imagined those moments as strategy, as performance, as a long con. The difference between the two possibilities was unbearable.

Monday morning, she arrived at Archer Lane prepared to confront him, determined to demand the truth. Instead, she was summoned to an urgent board meeting. When she entered, the CFO stood at the head of the table, grim.

“For those who haven’t heard,” the CFO said, “Miles Kensington was involved in a serious car accident returning from Vermont yesterday morning. He’s in intensive care at Harborview Medical.”

Claire’s world narrowed to a point. Black ice. A guardrail failure. Critical but stable.

All she could think was that he’d driven back early, likely because everything had detonated at the retreat. Because she had left. Because he’d been trying to fix what Victor broke.

The next three days blurred into exhaustion and guilt. Claire went to the hospital and was turned away because she wasn’t family. She sat in her car outside the building and cried in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to cry since Liam left, because Claire Rowan had learned that tears didn’t solve schedules.

On Thursday afternoon, her assistant knocked on her office door. “Ms. Rowan, there’s a woman here to see you. She says she’s Miles’s sister.”

Claire looked up to find a woman with Miles’s same dark hair and bourbon eyes, but with an expression sharpened by worry and skepticism.

“Celia Kensington,” the woman introduced herself. “My brother regained consciousness this morning. He’s been asking for you, insistently.” She paused, gaze assessing. “He also mentioned a misunderstanding involving Victor Lang and an old college bet.”

Claire’s stomach dropped. So it was real.

Celia’s expression softened slightly, as if she’d seen this pattern before: a woman caught between hope and self-protection. “You should hear the full story from Miles himself,” she said. “My car is downstairs.”

Forty-five minutes later, Claire stood in the doorway of Miles’s private hospital room. He looked pale against the white sheets, a bandage on his forehead, one arm in a cast, but unmistakably alive. When he saw her, his eyes filled with something that didn’t belong in a sterile room.

“Claire,” he whispered, and her name sounded like both relief and apology.

“You scared me,” she said, voice breaking despite her best efforts.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m told that’s my specialty.”

Claire stepped closer, heart hammering. “About the email. The bet.”

Miles closed his eyes briefly. “Victor’s last attempt to wedge doubt between us. Clever, because it was a partial truth.”

“So there was a bet,” Claire said, chest tight.

Miles nodded once, shame visible. “Twenty years ago, in college, Harrison and Victor and I made stupid wagers about everything. One night, drunk and idiotic, we made a bet about dating someone from every floor of the university library. It was juvenile and objectifying, and I’m not proud of it.” He met her gaze directly. “But it ended there. I never collected on it. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why would Victor bring it up now?”

“Because he knew it would sound plausible,” Miles said, voice rough. “Because he knew you’ve been hurt. He knew exactly where to aim.”

Claire swallowed hard. “You barely spoke to me for three years.”

“Because you reported to Victor,” Miles said. “And because I was trying to maintain boundaries. I noticed you, Claire. I watched your work. I admired you. But I didn’t want to be the CEO who uses power to blur lines. The wedding gave me a reason to approach you as… a person.” His fingers found her hand, gentle. “Not a subordinate.”

Claire’s eyes burned. “Sophie is my life,” she said. “Anyone close to me has to accept that.”

Miles’s expression softened. “I adore Sophie. Her magic tricks. Her dragon fears. Her endless questions.” His smile flickered, tired but real. “She’s extraordinary. Just like her mother.”

A knock came, and Celia stepped in with Sophie, who clutched her stuffed rabbit and a homemade card covered in glitter and crayon dragons.

Sophie approached the bed cautiously. “Mr. Miles,” she whispered, “does it hurt a lot?”

Miles’s face brightened like the room had been waiting for her. “Less now that you’re here,” he said gently.

Sophie handed him the card solemnly. “It’s magic,” she whispered. “To keep dragons away while you sleep.”

Miles held it like it was priceless. “This is the strongest magic I’ve ever seen,” he declared, and Sophie giggled, relief spilling out of her in a small, bright sound.

Claire watched them and felt something inside her unclench. The world could still be complicated. People could still lie. But some truths were louder than rumors, and this one was kneeling in a hospital bed, praising a child’s glitter dragons like they were heroic.

Six months later, Claire stood on the deck of Miles’s Cape Cod home, the ocean stretching out like a clean page. Below, Miles chased Sophie along the beach, both of them laughing, Sophie shrieking with delight every time he pretended a wave was a dragon. The wind carried salt and new beginnings, and Claire turned the engagement ring on her finger, still stunned by the careful way Miles had proposed: not with grand spectacle, but with conversations, consent, and Sophie’s enthusiastic approval.

Genevieve Hart joined Claire on the deck with two champagne flutes. “Congratulations,” she said, eyes shining. “Though I must admit, I saw this story unfolding back in Vermont.”

Claire smiled, accepting the glass. “Was it that obvious?”

“To anyone who writes romance for a living,” Genevieve said, amused. “Yes.”

Miles and Sophie climbed the steps, sandy and glowing. Sophie sprinted to Claire. “Mom! Mr. Miles taught me how to find sea glass. We’re making a collection!”

Miles followed, wrapping an arm around Claire’s waist with a familiarity that still felt like a miracle. “She has an eye for treasure,” he said softly. “Just like you. You found value where others didn’t look.”

Claire leaned into him, letting herself feel the weight of everything they’d survived: sabotage, doubt, fear, the old wound of abandonment, the new risk of trust. Love hadn’t erased complications. It had simply given them a reason to face them together, with policies, boundaries, honesty, and a child’s glitter-drawn dragons guarding the tender parts.

That night, when Sophie slept in her room with glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling, Claire and Miles stood on the deck under a sky powdered with constellations. The ocean hummed below like a lullaby.

“Any regrets?” Miles asked quietly.

Claire thought of the wedding table, the loneliness, the pity she’d learned to swallow, and the moment a man had offered her not rescue, but partnership. She thought of how trust wasn’t a single leap. It was a thousand small choices made again and again.

“Just one,” she said, looking up at him, a smile tugging at her mouth. “That we wasted so much time pretending.”

Miles laughed, warm and real, and pulled her close. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m done with pretending.”

Under the starlit sky, Claire kissed him and felt something settle into place, not like a fairy tale ending, but like a life finally choosing softness without surrendering strength. Sometimes, she realized, the happiest endings weren’t about being saved. They were about being seen, and being brave enough to stay.

THE END