Chapter 62 – Ex Chooses Her
The lights on the set blazed with an almost cruel brilliance, highlighting every flash of color, every glittering surface, every twitch of nerves that threatened to betray me. I had rehearsed this moment in my head a thousand times, each scenario more dramatic and cinematic than the last, but nothing could have prepared me for the roar of reality as it hurtled toward me.
Dante stood across from me, hands shoved casually into his pockets, trying—or at least appearing—to be nonchalant. But his jaw was tight, his gaze too intense to be casual, and the slight dip of his brow betrayed that he was just as nervous as I was. A part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity: all this buildup, cameras everywhere, and yet here we were, two adults behaving like teenagers caught in a candy store of emotions.
The host's voice boomed over the PA system, hyping the crowd, feeding off the tension like it was a gourmet meal. "Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for! Will love triumph over doubt? Will hearts finally unite before our eyes?"
I took a deep breath, bracing myself against the whirlwind of expectation, my stomach doing backflips that no amount of deep breathing could settle. My gaze slid to Dante, who was fidgeting with the lapel of his jacket in the most endearing, exasperatingly human way.
"Just… don't trip on live television," I muttered under my breath, though the words came out more like a squeak.
"Not a chance," he replied with that crooked grin that had ruined—and saved—countless days of my life. The ease of his teasing made my chest tighten, but in a good way, the way only he could induce.
The cameras inched closer, capturing every microexpression, every nervous twitch, every heartbeat that might betray us to the world. And then, it happened. The host leaned forward, voice dropping into the sort of suspense-building tone used in crime dramas, and asked the question we'd both been anticipating.
"Dante," he said, and my stomach sank into my shoes, "do you choose her?"
The audience held its collective breath. I felt the vibration of their excitement through the floor, an almost tangible current, and my heart threatened to pound itself right out of my chest.
Dante's eyes found mine, dark pools of intensity, and for a long moment, he said nothing. My nerves spiked, imagining all the wrong possibilities—he could deny me, he could choose the public over the private, he could…
Then his hand lifted, brushing against mine in that small, almost accidental way that made my pulse double. His voice, low and steady despite the theatrics of the stage, finally broke the silence.
"I choose you," he said, and the simplicity of it stole the air from my lungs.
The audience screamed, cameras flashed, and the lights seemed to blur into halos around us. The words hung in the air, electric and solid all at once. I felt the weight of everything—the chaos, the scheming, the jealousy, the heartbreak, the long months of near-misses and unspoken words—collapse into that single, undeniable truth. He chose me.
Before I could process it, he stepped closer, bridging the distance that had felt insurmountable for months. His hands found my waist, grounding me, tethering me to a reality I barely dared to believe. My hands, almost without my permission, rested on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms.
And then, impossibly, gloriously, he kissed me.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't a polite, camera-friendly peck. It was all-consuming, a collision of months of longing and frustration, of laughter and teasing, of hurt and reconciliation. Our lips moved together with a rhythm that felt preordained, natural, inevitable. I clung to him, tasting the familiar warmth and safety I had spent too long denying myself.
The cameras captured everything—the arch of my back, the way my fingers clutched at his shirt, the subtle gasp of air as our mouths parted and reunited. The host could narrate all the drama in the world, but nothing could compete with the raw, unfiltered emotion that radiated between us.
Somewhere behind the lens, I could sense the rivals seething. Their schemes, their plotting, their whispered bets—they were all irrelevant now. Nothing mattered but this moment, the way Dante's hand curled around my wrist, the way his forehead rested against mine when we finally pulled back to breathe.
"You really picked me," I whispered, still catching my breath, my chest heaving with a mixture of disbelief, relief, and something deeper, something electric.
"I did," he replied, voice low, raspy from emotion, tinged with that stubborn warmth I loved. "Every time I had a choice, every time I had a chance, it was you. Only you."
I laughed softly, the sound trembling with joy and nervousness. "And here I thought all those months of avoidance, scheming, and staged betrayals would matter. Turns out, they just made this moment sweeter."
He grinned, brushing his nose against mine. "Trust me, I noticed. Every ridiculous little ploy, every time you tried to sabotage yourself, I was there. Waiting. Watching. Hoping."
My heart melted into a puddle of warmth, a rush of emotions too potent to name. "You… really didn't care about the cameras? The show?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Dante's eyes softened, a glimmer of private amusement hidden beneath layers of intensity. "I cared about you. And nothing else matters—not the cameras, not the producers, not the audience. Only this." He pressed his lips briefly to my temple, a sacred, intimate gesture that made me feel like the world had shrunk to just the two of us.
For a moment, the applause, the cheers, the flashing lights—all of it—became background noise, a blurry soundtrack to the clarity of our connection. Every misstep, every awkward, comical, heart-stopping interaction that had led us here suddenly made perfect sense. All the ridiculousness, the jealousy, the scheming rivals—it had all been preparation for this, the moment of undeniable truth.
He leaned closer, whispering against my ear in that way that made my knees weak and my mind scatter into a thousand joyous directions. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. How long I've needed this. How long I've needed you."
"I think I've got a pretty good idea now," I murmured, voice trembling with laughter and tears, with relief and desire all mixed into a potent cocktail that left me lightheaded.
And then he kissed me again. This time, slower, more deliberate, as if every lingering second was an apology for the months of miscommunication, for every misunderstanding, every pause, every moment we'd spent apart. My hands threaded into his hair, tugging slightly, drawing him closer, needing more, needing everything.
The cameras didn't flinch. The host didn't intervene. The audience screamed and cried and cheered, but I barely noticed. The world had narrowed to Dante and me, the hum of energy around us irrelevant compared to the storm of heat, laughter, longing, and love that enveloped us.
When we finally broke apart to breathe, I rested my forehead against his, eyes closed, heart racing in a symphony that seemed to sync perfectly with his. "I can't believe this is real," I whispered, the truth of it settling over me like sunlight after a storm.
"It is real," he said softly, and I could hear the unwavering certainty in his voice. "And it's ours. All of it. Every messy, ridiculous, perfect second of it."
I laughed, a genuine, breathless laugh that felt like liberation. "Messy, ridiculous, perfect… sounds like us," I said.
"Exactly," he murmured, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "And I wouldn't change a single thing."
The cameras captured our embrace one last time, the footage destined to become iconic in the annals of reality television romance. But to me, it wasn't about the cameras. It wasn't about the show. It was about us—finally, irrevocably, undeniably, ours.
As Dante held me, whispered the words I'd been waiting to hear, and brushed a gentle kiss across my hairline, I realized with dizzying clarity that this was the culmination of everything—every challenge, every flirtation, every tease, every misstep. Every ridiculous, comedic, emotional, exasperating moment had led to this one glorious truth: he chose me, fully, completely, and no one, no camera, no rival, could take that away.
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
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