CHAPTER HUNDRED & EIGHTY-THREE

CHAPTER HUNDRED & EIGHTY-THREE
ASHLEY

We were at the Glass Garden Conservatory.

A hidden gem–private, exclusive, and the kind of place you only got access to if your name could buy you planets. Or, in Kyle’s case, if you rebuilt empires from ash and walked into places like this like you owned them.

I’d never been here before. Didn’t even know it existed until we stepped through the unmarked stone entrance and into something that looked like it had bloomed straight out of a fairytale.

And maybe it had.

The glass arched high above our heads, a shimmering dome laced with wrought iron vines and soft-glowing fairy lights. Moonlight poured in through the panels, catching on dew-kissed petals and pooling over the mosaic floor in silver puddles. Everywhere I looked, something was blooming—lavender, soft wisteria, climbing roses, and wild jasmine. It smelled like night and dreams and maybe a little bit like magic.

Kyle stood in the center of it all, holding two glasses of wine, backlit by the soft glow of lanterns that hung in the air like low stars. But it wasn’t the flowers or the setting that stole the breath from my lungs.

It was him.

He looked at me like I’d just pulled the entire sky down and handed it to him.

“You look really pretty,” he said quietly.

My heart did that stupid flutter it always did when he looked at me like that—like I was something rare.

I glanced down at myself, suddenly aware of how the silky fabric of my dress hugged my waist, how my curls were pinned just loosely enough to fall in waves around my face. “I—thank you,” I said, my voice embarrassingly soft.

He smiled at my awkward thank-you, clearly enjoying the effect he had on me.

“You sound surprised,” he teased, taking a sip of his wine.

“I’m not,” I lied, eyes narrowing slightly. “I just—don’t usually have dates in magical secret gardens with men who look like they walked out of a GQ cover shoot.”

“That’s a shame,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’ve been waiting for this GQ feature forever.”

I snorted. “I’m sure the camera would melt.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. All this wasted potential.”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t help the grin that broke across my face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But charming,” he added, stepping closer.

“Debatable.”

“Come on, Freckles. You like me just a little bit ridiculous.”

I laughed. “Okay, maybe a little.”

He offered his arm with a slight, exaggerated bow. “Shall we dine, my lady?”

I accepted it with a dramatic flourish of my own. “We shall, my lord.”

We made our way toward the table set beneath the largest arch of the glass dome, where a soft candle flickered between two plates of food that somehow smelled even better than the garden around us. There was pasta..fresh and steaming served with roasted vegetables, a basket of warm rolls, and a chilled bottle of white wine glistening in an ice bucket beside the table.

Kyle pulled out my chair with unnecessary flair. “Milady,” he said in a fake British accent that was so bad I nearly choked on my laugh.

“You’re going to keep this up all night, aren’t you?”

“I’ve committed,” he said proudly, settling in across from me. “And you’re stuck with me.”

I smiled as I unfolded my napkin onto my lap. “I’ve had worse company.”

He tilted his head. “Wow. Don’t get too sentimental on me.”

I threw a roll at him.

He caught it midair with ease, grinning like a five-year-old who just won a game. “Reflexes. Still got ‘em.”

I shook my head, trying not to laugh as I picked up my fork. “You know, for a man who’s spent the past few days dismantling legacies and rebranding empires, you’re remarkably… goofy tonight.”

He paused, his eyes softening. “Maybe because for the first time in a long time… I can be.”

Something in my chest pinched.

And before I could stop myself, I said softly, “I’m glad.”

He met my eyes, and just for a second, the humor faded. “Me too.”

We ate in silence for a few moments, the kind that didn’t feel heavy or awkward, just… peaceful. Like the world had slowed down enough to let us be two people, not two stories, not two scars pretending to be healed.

Just forks clicking gently against plates. The occasional rustle of wind through the ivy-wrapped trellises above us. The scent of rosemary and jasmine floating in the air like it belonged to the night.

He refilled my wine glass, and I murmured a soft “thank you,” my fingers brushing his briefly. Sparks, of course. Because my body still hadn’t learned how to be around Kyle Black—KLD, whatever—without turning traitor.

“So,” he said finally, slicing through a roasted carrot with far too much concentration, “do I get points for this?”

I blinked. “Points?”

He gestured around us. “You know. For romance. Surprise dinner in a magical glass garden. Good wine. Great company. Questionable table manners.”

I laughed, nudging his foot beneath the table. “You’re fishing.”

“Desperately.”

“Fine. You get points.”

He perked up. “How many?”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider. “Seven and a half.”

His face fell. “That’s it?”

“You lose three for the British accent.”

“That’s fair.”

“And another half for trying to butter your roll with a dessert spoon.”

“I was improvising!”

I laughed again, setting my fork down and resting my chin in my hand. “You’re different tonight.”

“Different how?”

“Lighter. Softer.”

He looked at me for a beat, then gave a slow nod. “I guess… everything’s always felt like a fight. For control. For survival. For the next win. I didn’t even realize how tightly I was holding everything… until I let go.”

“Of the name?”

He nodded. “Of the name. Of the man who gave it to me. Of the version of myself I kept trying to fix, even when it wasn’t broken. You helped me see that.”

Something in my chest pulled tight.

“I wasn’t trying to fix you,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, eyes warm and steady. “You were just… there. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to be someone else to earn it.”

God.

How did he still do this to me?

I looked down at my plate, the edges of my vision going blurry with a mix of warmth and nerves.

“You’re going to make me cry over pasta,” I mumbled.

He grinned, then reached across the table and gently took my hand.

“I don’t care where we go from here, Ashley. Just that we go there together.”

My breath caught.

“Kyle—”

“Don’t say anything to that yet,” he said quickly. “Let’s just eat dessert first. I think there’s some ridiculous chocolate thing Violet insisted on.”

I smiled, letting my thumb brush over his knuckles.

The dessert arrived in a flourish—some kind of molten chocolate cake with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream nestled on top like it was born to be famous on Instagram. I took one bite and immediately sighed.

“Okay,” I said around a spoonful. “Violet was right. I’d marry this cake.”

Kyle narrowed his eyes, mock-offended. “Excuse me?”

I licked a bit of chocolate from the side of my mouth and arched a brow. “I said what I said.”

“I bring you to a magical garden conservatory. Feed you truffle pasta. Open my soul. And I lose to a cake?”

“You never stood a chance,” I teased.

He gave a long-suffering sigh, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Betrayal. At the highest level.”

I laughed so hard I nearly knocked over my wine.

And then, in a move that startled me more than it should’ve, Kyle stood and extended his hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked warily.

He didn’t answer—just wiggled his fingers. “Dance with me.”

“There’s no music.”

“We’ll make our own.”

I squinted. “That’s either very romantic or very suspicious.”

He just kept holding out his hand, waiting.

I gave in, of course. Because it was him.

Because I always did.

He pulled me to my feet and into the open space just beside our table, the faint sounds of the city in the distance blending with the wind in the leaves above us. Fairy lights twinkled on the trellises. A soft breeze toyed with the hem of my dress.

We started slow, his hand on my waist, mine on his shoulder.

“You know,” I said after a moment, “you’re actually not a bad dancer.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, mock offended. “I took two weeks of ballroom classes in college. Granted, I was drunk for most of it, but muscle memory’s a gift.”

“Is that why you keep stepping on my foot?”

“That’s called... rhythm.”

“That’s called sabotage.”

He grinned, spinning me with a flair that made me laugh—and nearly trip. He caught me before I could fall completely and pulled me flush against him.

“Careful,” he murmured, the humor in his eyes softening into something else entirely. “You fall too hard, and I might never let you get back up.”

I swallowed.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” I whispered.

A beat passed between us—so quiet I could hear the echo of my pulse in my ears.

grinned back. “You’re not wrong.”

“I rarely am,” he said with mock arrogance.

I tilted my head. “Except for the time you tried to toast bread on the stove with a hairdryer.”

He winced. “Okay, one desperation is a valid excuse. Two—that was college. And three—it kind of worked.”

“No, it caught fire.”

“Exactly. Toasted.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He raised a brow. “I knew that would eventually be the only thing keeping me around.”

“It’s not the only thing,” I teased. “You also have good taste in cologne.”

He stepped closer, dipping his head until his mouth brushed my ear. “You like the way I smell, freckles?”

A shiver slid down my spine. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, low and pleased, then pulled back just enough to meet my eyes again.

We moved slower after that. No more jokes. Just the two of us, swaying in a rhythm that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with us.

When the breeze picked up again, he tucked a curl behind my ear and murmured, “I meant what I said, you know.”

“About what?”

“Going anywhere. As long as it’s with you.”