57

Chapter Fifty Seven

Daniella’s Pov

Sunlight warms my face, and for the first time in months, my chest doesn't feel heavy when I open my eyes.

Kent is sleeping right beside me, one arm heavy and warm across my waist, his dark hair messy against the white pillow. I trace the strong line of his jaw with my finger, thinking of last night—the quiet words, the burning kiss, the realest safety I have ever known.

Then reality taps me on the shoulder.

Wife.

Marrying Kent means walking under a permanent spotlight. Reporters, flashbulbs, high-society wives who look at me like I crashed a party I wasn't invited to. My stomach gives a tiny twist of nervous doubt. Am I ready for that goldfish bowl?

Kent shifts, his dark eyes fluttering open. He doesn't look half-asleep or confused. He looks straight at me, his gaze softening into that warm, deep anchor that pulls every worry under the surface.

"Morning," he murmurs, his voice gravel-rough and low.

"Morning," I whisper back.

He doesn't rush me. He doesn't ask what I'm thinking or demand a speech about the future. Instead, he kisses my forehead, gets up first, and makes coffee that actually smells good.

After breakfast, Kent grabs his keys and looks at me with a steady, quiet grin. "Come with me. I want to show you my real office."

Not the family glass tower downtown with gold leaf on the lobby doors. Not the boardroom where old men bark orders like kings.

Twenty minutes later, we walk into a sleek, clean mid-rise suite downtown with light grey walls, white desks, and large windows looking out over the busy street traffic. On the glass door, simple black letters read: Vance Advisory Group.

Inside, Kent doesn't wear a corporate crown. He rolls up his sleeves, opens a laptop, and gets straight to work on his first major client retainer—reviewing risk models for a biotech startup.

I sit in the corner chair with my own tablet, watching him work.

A video call pops up on his screen. A tech CEO starts pushing back hard on audit pricing and compliance scope, trying to test the former billionaire's edge.

Kent doesn't blink. He doesn't drop names, and he doesn't call grandfather for a backup threat. He leans forward, his voice calm, sharp, and razor-sharp smart, breaking down market exposure and risk metrics until the CEO nods, accepts the terms, and signs off on the spot.

My chest swells so hard it hurts.

This isn't an heir riding a family trust. This is a man. Built from grit, brains, and pure willpower. I fall in love with him all over again right there in the quiet hum of the startup office.

By evening, the sun sinks low, painting the glass windows bruised purple and gold.

Kent doesn't take me to a loud, flashbulb-heavy restaurant where photographers wait by the coat check. Instead, he drives us up to a quiet rooftop terrace downtown, private and open to the cool night air. A small table, two chairs, simple white candles flickering in glass jars, and warm food waiting in ceramic bowls.

We sit across from each other, eating chicken and passing the salt like we've done it a thousand times.

Kent sets his fork down, leaning his forearms on the small wooden table. He looks at me with those steady, dark eyes that miss nothing.

"You're quiet," he says softly. "Good quiet or thinking quiet?"

I smile, tracing the rim of my water glass. "Thinking about weddings. The kind your family throws. Massive stone cathedrals, four hundred people eating food they hate, reporters counting the carat weight of diamond rings, and everyone pretending they care about love instead of balance sheets."

I look up at him, honest and true. "I never dreamed of that, Kent. Ever. If I could choose... I’d want something small. A place with grass and trees. People who actually know our names. Good food, bad dancing, and zero cameras."

Kent doesn't laugh. He doesn't look disappointed that I rejected the high-society fairy tale. Instead, a slow, fierce light breaks across his face.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his dark jacket.

My breath catches. The world around us—the hum of traffic down below, the flicker of the candle flame, the cold evening wind—all of it goes dead silent.

He pulls out a small velvet box. Dark blue. Simple.

He doesn't open it yet. He slides it across the wooden table until it taps softly against my fingertips.

"Then I'll give you exactly the wedding you want," Kent says, his voice dropping low, steady, and unbreakable.

He lifts the velvet lid.

Inside, resting against cream satin, is a ring. Not a massive stone blinding everyone in a ten-foot radius. A simple band of brushed platinum holding a deep, dark sapphire that catches the candlelight like midnight water. Clean, timeless, and completely ours.

My eyes burn with hot, happy tears.

Kent stands up, walking around the small table. He drops down on one knee right beside my chair, taking my left hand in his big, warm palm. His thumb strokes my skin, gentle and sure.

"I don't need a cathedral to prove I'm yours," Kent murmurs, looking up into my face with an intensity that steals my breath. "I chose you in a messy classroom. I chose you over a billion-dollar vault. And I choose you right here, right now, for every quiet morning and loud night left in my life."

He slips the cool platinum ring onto my finger. It fits like it was carved for my skin.

I cover his hand with mine, leaning down to pull him up, meeting his mouth in a kiss that tastes like everything we survived and everything we are finally going to build.