Chapter 128 – Zander
My fiancé is the most beautiful person in the universe.
It's not up for debate.
From his eyes, twin emeralds so piercing and vivid they could shame gemstones, to his lips—smiling, smirking, or pouting, I want all of them. To the hair that catches light like a thousand strands of gold. His presence demands attention and his spirit refuses to be caged. I don't just love him—I worship the very ground beneath his heeled shoes.
I twirl him again, one hand firm on his waist, the other clasping his palm as his body flows into mine with practiced ease. He spins, his blond hair fanning out like the pages of a fairytale, and when he lands against me again, I know—I could become a poet just trying to describe what it feels like to hold him.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Mr. Vale?" he murmurs, brow arched in suspicion and playful charm.
"Like what?" I ask, already smiling.
"Like you want to devour me whole."
I slide my arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me. "And here I thought I looked love-struck. Apparently I'm giving off 'horny bastard' instead."
"Two things can be true at once," he replies with an elegant shrug, his voice light but his gaze steady, knowing.
I laugh softly, shaking my head as he leans into me, his head resting against my chest for just a moment. The music plays around us, but it may as well not exist. Everything outside this moment—outside him—is meaningless.
I want to spend the rest of my life with him.
No more waiting. No more planning for some arbitrary perfect day. This is it. Right now. He's already mine, and yet I want to bind us even more.
"Would it be too dramatic," I murmur, brushing his hair back with a soft touch, "if I dropped to my knees again and asked you to marry me?"
His head tilts up, lips curling into a smirk.
"As much as I would love to see them froth at the mouth from a scandal like that," he hums, "you're only allowed on your knees for me in private."
I groan, my chest vibrating with laughter.
"Why did you say it like that?" I ask. "I was trying to be romantic."
He giggles—actual giggles—and I swear my heart does an embarrassing flip inside my chest. His joy makes the universe quieter. Gentler. Warmer. Like the sun finally rising after a long winter.
"I love you," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"I love you too," he replies, voice smaller now, tender.
I lean in, brushing my lips against his cheek, then hover just above his lips. I don't kiss him yet—I just breathe him in.
"Marry me," I whisper.
His brow furrows just a little, eyes flicking to the ring already on his finger. "The presence of this ring means you already have your answer, Zander."
He presses his hand over my heart like he's anchoring me. Or maybe reminding himself that I'm real.
"No," I say, gently. "I mean… marry me. Now."
He stills.
"You're serious."
"I've never been more serious in my life."
"But… the wedding? Planning? The ceremony?" He trails off, blinking as if trying to catch up with my racing heart.
I study his face, every line, every hesitation, every unspoken fear. "Do you want a wedding?"
He's quiet. The gala moves around us, distant. We stand still in the eye of the storm.
"I want to be with you," he finally says. "More than anything."
"Then where?" I ask softly. "A beach? A forest? A cliff? We'll go right now. Just you and me."
He blinks again, processing. "What about… a snowy landscape?"
"Done." I don't hesitate.
His lips twitch. "Now?"
"Now," I repeat, already pulling him toward the edge of the ballroom.
There's a stir around us as we move through the crowd—gasps, murmurs, a few scandalized looks from his enemies and my board members. The Browns are practically turning purple. The Vale patriarch might combust.
Let them.
Let the press foam at the mouth. Let the world tremble. I am leaving the gala of the year with my fiancé's hand in mine, and I'm not coming back until he's legally mine in every sense of the word.
As we near the doors, Ivan stops, turning to look back at the ballroom. Then back at me.
"You're really doing this," he whispers.
"So are you," I whisper back, cupping his face.
He's still smiling, but there's a rare softness in it now. Not teasing. Not coy. Just open. Exposed. Like he's choosing me without hesitation.
"Don't trip over your train, future husband," I say as I push open the doors.
"I only fall for billionaires with great jawlines," he says, walking beside me.
"And?"
He leans in. "Lucky you fit the description."