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That’s him.

Unapologetically powerful. Unshakably calm.

And when he looks at me? It’s like he sees through all the polish and performance—straight to the core of who I really am.

And for once, I don’t want to hide it.

I have some commitments I still need to fulfill, but after that, maybe I won’t have to do this anymore.

Because my last name carries weight.

And my face always garners attention—wanted or not.

Pretty is currency in my world, but that doesn’t mean I always like how it’s spent.

But, like it or not, I am kind of a celebrity.

Not because I asked for it.

Because I was born into it.

And maybe that’s why Balor feels so different.

Because for once, I’m not being admired for the idea of me.

He looks for the real me. And when he finds it? He doesn’t look away.

And that? That’s everything.

Holding the clothes I wore in Puerto Rico to my chest before dropping them in the hamper, I close my eyes, and I can still feel the sticky warmth of the island air.

The salt in my hair.

Balor’s hand on my thigh as we watched the sunset from his infinity pool.

The way he opens his arms for me, swallowing me in the power and surety of his embrace.

A dreamy sigh escapes my lips, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe I haven’t found my happily-ever-after, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Five-Lucy

The doorbell rings.

I frown.

That’s odd.

It’s too early for the caterer, and my cousins haven’t arrived yet either.

Still holding my phone from checking the group chat, I cross the foyer and open the door—and instantly wish I hadn’t.

A deliveryman stands on the doorstep, arms overflowing with tiger lilies. The bright orange blooms nearly glow against the soft morning light, and the scent—bold, sweet, wild—hits me like a wall.

It’s overpowering. There must be at least two dozen.

“Delivery for Mrs. Cruz,” he says, cheerful and oblivious.

Mrs. Cruz. That name still makes something flutter low in my stomach, but this? This doesn’t feel right.