Page 26 of Make Me Yours

“That’s because Devon thought it would be best if I didn’t come back,” I grit out. “And honestly? He wasn’t wrong. After everything that happened, there’s no way I could’ve stayed.”

There’s a beat.

“Lilah, you can’t just throw away your career over something so?—”

“He’s the one who threw it away,” I snap, my voice cracking as emotion claws its way up my throat. “Not me.”

Another silence follows, but this one feels different.

Heavier.

Final.

I grip the phone tighter, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I know you liked him and were hoping we’d get married, but it hasn’t been right for a while. And I kept holding on, trying to force it, because I didn’t want to let anyone down.” I blink hard against the sting in my eyes. “But in the end, I was the one left disappointed. I’m sorry if you had this picture in your head of how my life was supposed to look. But that vision? It’s not yours to shape. It’s mine. And for once, I’m doing what’s right for me.”

She falls quiet again before asking gently, “Are you okay?”

I glance at Steele and give him a slight smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”

She makes a vague noise and mutters something about talking later. And then we say our goodbyes, and I hang up. My shoulders drop as I set the phone down.

Steele wraps an arm around me and gently pulls me against him. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Thanks for holding my hand through that.”

His lips brush the top of my head. “Haven’t you figured out by now that I’ll always be here, holding your hand any time you need it?”

I stay tucked into his side as the TV hums in the background, a blur of sound and color I barely register.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I said what needed to be said.

And it felt good. Freeing in a way I hadn’t realized I was desperate for.

Like I’m finally starting to find my way back to myself.

8

STEELE

The scent hits me the second I step off the elevator and into the penthouse. It’s something savory and buttery, rich enough to make my stomach grumble after a brutal two-hour practice on the ice.

But it’s the humming that really gets me.

It’s soft, tuneless, and even more than that, content.

I drop the grocery bag by the bench in the entryway and follow the scent like a bloodhound. The second I round the corner into the kitchen, I freeze.

Lilah’s dancing barefoot and wearing a midriff-bearing sweater with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and there’s flour dusted across her cheek and the counter. One cabinet door is hanging open as a spatula sits against a pan on the stove.

It looks like a bomb went off in here.

And I fucking love it.

This is exactly what Lilah looks like when she’s happy.

Reallyhappy.

It’s not the kind of quiet composure she used to wear like armor when she was with Devon. This is loose and effortless. She looks like she belongs here, moving around my kitchen.