Chapter 55

Avery’s POV

The farmhouse sat like a secret caught between the maples and the late summer sky. Its wide porch held warmth from the sun, the scent of cut hay dragging through open windows.

Driving up the gravel lane felt like a ritual—each crunch under my tires loosened knots in my chest. When Tiffany slipped into the passenger seat, she wore a demure grin that did not match the sparks smoldering behind her eyes.

We arrived in the lull between day and evening. The farmhouse had an old, honest look—boards that learned to creak, a chimney that breathed smoke like a storyteller.

The hall smelled of lemon polish and home. A sofa sat in the center of the hall, a low thing upholstered in fabric that held a thousand conversations.

We dropped our bags by the stairs—the routine of unpacking felt like putting down armor. When we sank onto the sofa, the house exhaled.

Twilight bled through the windows in soft pools, gilding Tiffany’s hair, giving her the halo of an old portrait. She turned to me with that tilt of head that signaled she was about to be precise and unflinching.

“Avery,” she said, “what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

My heart threatened to answer, to lurch out of my chest and spill every anxious, tangled thing I carried all week. Instead, I let my hands find hers and I knelt—a gesture half impulsive, half ceremonial—because the world seemed heavy and I needed to anchor myself to something real.

Her hand fit in mine as it always had: soft but sure, a map of warmth and steadiness. “Tiffany,” I said, and the sound of her name grounded me.

“I didn’t know my mother was going to announce something like that. If I’d known—” I drowned in the memory of the luncheon, her voice about alliances and futures clicking around like clockwork. “I would have told her not to. I would have told her not to do it.”

She interrupted me before I could spiral, her voice a tide. “Avery, I know. You don’t need to explain.”

She squeezed my hand, compressing all my worry into a point. “No,” I demanded, because I could not let her smooth things over for me this time. “Listen to me. Please.”

She looked at me with the patience she always gave me, a patience I suspected she stored like treasure. “I’m listening.”

“Forget about Auston,” I said, my voice steadying. “Forget about anyone else. I will never say yes to anyone—not for business, not for title, not for anything that asks me to trade you for a name.”

The words shaped themselves into a vow, even if I had not earned it yet. Her eyebrows lifted.

There was surprise, a catch at the edge of her breath, and then the lines by her eyes deepened. “Avery, you can’t say that.”

Her tone changed, not angry but urgent. “You know your parents look at this as more than marriage. It’s an alliance. Blake’s Industries is—” she swallowed, searching for a word that did not make my jaw clench—”it’s vast. After the Von Carters, it’s on a scale that’s—well, it’s not just business, it’s everything. There’s legacy and responsibility there.”

“I know,” I said. I knew the name and the weight that came with it; the title had been handed down like a relic I wore without asking until now.

It was useful at times, a key that opened doors. It was also the kind of inheritance that took your breath and replaced it with expectations.

When Tiffany reached to tuck a stray loop of hair behind my ear, her fingers brushed my cheek and I felt oxygen flood back in. “If something like that had to happen,” I said, surprising myself with the stubbornness that rose up like heat, “then I’ll give up this Von Carters title.”

Her eyes widened until they were pools reflecting a sky I had not been allowed to see. She grasped my hands like an anchor in reverse, as though trying to keep me from drifting.

“Avery,” she said with a world of worry and exasperation and a tenderness that could have cut glass, “you can’t say things like that. You are important—to your family, to the people watching, to everything they plan. Don’t be ingenuous. Promise me you won’t do something so… dramatic. Not because of them, but because of you. Running away from a problem never fixes the problem.”

My chest tightened. “I won’t run,” I answered. “If I do anything, it’ll be for you.”

The sentence came out quiet, edged with vulnerability. “I will always choose you.”

She moved—a decisive movement—and helped me up, guiding me to sit beside her on the sofa. The worn fabric curved around us like an old confidant.

Tiffany drew me close, her dress whispering against mine. “No,” she asserted, “you won’t do something drastic. We’ll figure this out. You will not erase yourself because someone else values what you have for the wrong reasons. That’s not the same as choosing a life together.”

I wanted to be heroic in the old-fashioned sense: to lay down a title and walk away from everything for the person I loved. I wanted the sweep of a romantic sacrifice.

Her pragmatic warmth tempered that impulse. There was a steadiness in her—a way she took in the world and parceled it into solvable pieces that still allowed room for tenderness.

She leaned her forehead against mine, and her breath trembled. “Promise me you won’t say anything you’ll regret.”

I looked at her, at the sheen of tears that made her eyes glitter like something too precious for ordinary hands, and the world narrowed to the sound of her breathing. My fingers brushed her jaw, and she flinched as if with shock at being so closely noticed.

“Don’t cry, my love,” I murmured, though the truth was I liked the way tears made her softer, more human. “I’ll try to do what you say. But I can’t promise not to be stubborn.”

The scent of her skin, the aroma of cedar and jasmine, replaced the sterile perfume of the mansion, and I breathed it in, letting the silence of the farmhouse swallow the last of my anxiety. Tiffany’s laugh, a breathy sound that was more an exhale of release than amusement, followed her embrace.

It was more than comfort; it was a physical vow. Her arms wrapped around me with a strength that felt grounding, and our hearts hammered in sync.

I could have sealed my eyes shut and existed in that bubble of safety—a sanctuary from titles and alliances. But the Von Carter blood was too restless, too prone to theatrical disruption.

A mischievous flash ignited within me, an urge to puncture the melodrama with a teasing spark. I pulled back just enough to catch her eyes, my grin threatening to tear away my solemnity.

“So,” I began, my voice dropping into a low, playful register, “where is my birthday gift?”

She shoved my shoulder, that characteristic gesture that always felt like the truest form of home. “Didn’t I give you something already?” she countered, feigning confusion.

“Nope,” I insisted, shaking my head. “Not the good kind. Not the one that matters.”

Her face shifted; the quickening in her eyes was an exercise of surprise, followed by a private smirk that only I was privileged to see. “You are impossible,” she scolded, but the word was an invitation, a softening challenge.

With a decisive grace, she rose from the sofa, the motion fluid. “Follow me to the bedroom,” she commanded, her voice husky, raw, and serious. “I don’t want to make you squirm on the sofa.”

I blinked, the teasing erased by the urgency in her tone. The change in her cadence—from tender strategist to demanding lover—was dizzying.

My heart began a frantic rhythm, a pulse that balanced on the wire between fantasy and exhilarating fear. I followed, drawn by an unbreakable tether.

The bedroom door closed with a quiet click, a sound louder than any shout, sealing us into profound intimacy. The air in the room was warm, the light from the bedside lamp casting honeyed shadows across the cream linens.

Tiffany sat on the edge of the bed, her posture relaxed and aware. I stood for a second, my fingers finding the knot of my tie.

“Since you’re undressing,” she said, her eyes never leaving mine, as if narrating an obvious truth, “you might as well undress me too.”

Her voice had a low, conspiratorial note that made the air seem to lean in. I crossed the room in two strides, my heart picking up speed, yet my mind felt serene.

I loosened my tie, allowing the silk to pool away, then slowly, ceremonially, unbuttoned my shirt, letting the small, shared intimacy of the motion fill the space. She watched, her expression a mix of adoration and co-conspiratorial delight that made my skin flush with heat.

When she rose, she moved with an easy confidence that stripped me of all practiced poise. She stood before me, and the realization hit me with the clarity of someone about to plunge into the unknown: tonight, I wanted to claim her in a way I had never been allowed to claim anything—not a business, not a title, only a person.

The thought—of planting a flag that read Tiffany-over-everything—sent a joyful tremor through me. “Tiffany,” I whispered, my voice raw, almost a prayer, “tonight, I want to claim you. I want it to be clear. Not just for me—for everyone. You are mine.”

I stepped closer, the space between us charged like a wire ready to snap. Her breath caught, a ragged sound, as my hands found the hem of her dress.

Her fingers threaded into my hair, a nervous, delighted urgency in her grip. I unfastened the buttons with deliberate intent, treating each one as a small, solemn pact.

The fabric sighed, pooling at her feet like a silken confession. For a profound moment, the farmhouse held its breath; the curtains stirred, and the distant clock in the hall ticked as if marking a sacred ceremony.

She stood in the dim, golden lamplight, and the fierce wanting rose in me again. I looked at her with reverence: the fragile slope of her shoulder, the sharp tip of her collarbone, the vulnerable sweep of her throat where my lips craved to rest.

I guided her toward the bed, feeling like an intruder in a cathedral I loved. “Lay down,” I murmured, the word an entreaty of devotion, and she obeyed with a trust that made my chest constrict.

She lay back, arranging herself like someone who had perfected both modesty and mischief—one hand splayed across her heart, the other resting palm-up, an explicit invitation. The lamp painted her skin in honeyed hues.

I bent, placing a reverent kiss on her forehead—a gesture protective and claiming. Then softer still, my lips brushed the bridge of her nose where that small, defiant freckle lived, pulling out a private smile I could not help but adore.

I let my mouth find hers, testing, playful at first, and she answered with a low, throaty laugh that deepened into a fierce promise. The kiss deepened, heat pooling; it became a flurry of playful nips escalating into an anchoring, demanding intensity.

My lips trailed from her mouth to the hollow at the base of her throat, leaving a wake of electric warmth. I circled her collarbone with my tongue, tasting the faint sweetness of her skin, and a soft, guttural sound—half-breath, half-plea—escaped her.

Her moan was immediate and raw, a wave of sound that hit me like wind to a flame, making the ember in my chest roar to life. I tautened, every muscle clenched with purpose.

I traced lazy, deliberate patterns around the circle of her shoulder and neck, mapping the geography of her rising pulse. My finger found the curve beneath her clavicle, and I teased it, drawing slow circles as if I could read every reaction, every yielding sensation, by touch alone.

“Avery, don’t tease me,” she finally managed, the word an urgent, breathless begging. Her voice was thin with want, and she reached to steady me, her fingers digging into my arm.

I leaned in close so my breath warmed the shell of her ear and whispered, the words heavy with intent, “What do you want me to do, Tiffany?”

Her look was sudden—stern, mischievous, and in control. She pinned me with her gaze and, with the authority of the professor I adored, commanded, “Do what you want to do, but stop teasing me like that.”

I grinned, the old, dangerous grin that promised delightful trouble. “You know you’re dangerous when you behave like a professor,” I teased, remembering the crisp way she took charge.

Tiffany’s expression hardened with mock indignation, though her eyes were molten. “Then I guess you won’t want to see me in full professor mode, will you?” she challenged, eyes flashing a deep, thrilling gold.

Her challenge lit me up. I captured her mouth again, kissing her harder, and murmured, my voice low and possessive, “Now keep quiet and let me do what I’m doing.”

My mouth found the place where her breaths came shallow and quick, and she answered with a moan that shook the structure of the bed. My fingers moved with intent, re-learning the most intimate geography of her body.

She clutched at me, her nails scoring into my back in a rhythm that matched the pressing of our bodies. When she shuddered, finally stilling in a tremulous release, she reached for me and, breathless and raw, said the small, life-altering thing.

“I love you, Avery.”

The words landed with a shocking, unexpected weight. They tasted like absolute truth, a crowning confession.

For a second, I was stunned, dizzy with the crystalline clarity of it. The silence afterward felt sacred.

I nipped at her earlobe, an intimate gesture, and breathed, “Say that again.” She laughed, a helpless, breathy sound, then enunciated each syllable like a verdict: “I. Love. You. Avery Von Carter.”

The way she added my surname—that gilded, heavy old chain—softened it into an offering. By attaching that name, she claimed not the title, but the whole complicated, flawed person who bore it.

The moment expanded, the farmhouse itself seeming to lean in and listen, marking the new covenant. There was a rhythm to our lovemaking now that felt less like raw, frantic need and more like deliberate, shared intimacy; a binding of two people with corded muscle and whispered promises.

We moved as if speaking a language only our bodies knew. She pulled back, her voice quiet with surrender.

“Enough now. I don’t have the energy.” I laughed, a deep, incredulous sound.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she replied, feigning ire. “You know I’m not as young as you.”

“I know,” I said, still smiling. “But you’re infinite.” She scoffed, then softened, her fingers threading in my hair.

“You simply drained every ounce of energy from me, Avery.” She pulled me down so we lay face to face.

“Tell me you love me,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around me in a lazy, possessive loop. “I love you too,” I said, meaning each syllable like a stone dropped into a deep well. “I really, really love you.”

A mischievous light returned to her eyes. “Are you satisfied with the birthday wishes you asked me for earlier?” she teased, her voice low and impish.

“Not yet,” I confessed, the hunger for her impossible to sate. “You could do better.” She widened her eyes and feigned a near-scream.

“Avery!” she protested, then laughed. “You won’t ever get over me, will you?” I shook my head, pressing my forehead to hers.

“Never. Ever.” She brushed a stray curl away.

“You must be tired,” she said. “But still, you had enough energy for this.” I grinned.

“Please, Tiffany. Don’t underestimate the power of Von Carters.” That made her laugh again, full, free, and safe.

I let the sound settle in my chest like a benediction. The sheets tangled around our legs, and in that knot of limbs and linen, we found a new, quieter rhythm.

We lay there for a long while, the room deepening into a private world, talking in fragments and charged whispers. I traced idle patterns on her arm, marveling at how ordinary gestures could feel like declarations.

At one point, she turned onto her side, tilting her chin at me with a serious, thoughtful expression. “You spelled your name with authority just now,” she teased. “Avery Von Carter. It’s new.”

“It’s theatrical,” I replied. “Isn’t everything with us a little theatrical?”

“We are dramatic people,” she agreed, her voice laced with wry amusement. “We should be fined for it.”

“Do you ever think about leaving the game?” I asked, the question rising from a deep place. “Not because I want to, but because sometimes it feels like a stage I didn’t audition for.”

She considered me for a long, heavy beat, her eyes fierce. “We don’t leave a game that’s rigged—we change the rules. Or we make a new game.”

Her words were delivered with a cool, sharp conviction that ignited an unfamiliar hope within me. “We will not be driven out, Avery. We will walk away, strategically.”

I nodded, gripping her hand. “The strategic walk away. I like the sound of that.”

“Good. Because that’s what we’re planning,” she affirmed. “And that requires you to be clear-headed and fully rested.”

She moved, settling her head against my shoulder, her fingers absently tracing the line of my jaw. “Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, we start building our new game.”

I closed my eyes, the immense weight of the Von Carter expectations lifted by her presence, by her belief in the future we were stealing. I felt her breath settle, her body relax into the deep, trusting sleep I envied.

The memory of the kisses, the passion, and the final, beautiful words—I love you, Avery Von Carter—were my true, lasting birthday gift. I laughed and then grew thoughtful.

Her eyes were fierce as she spoke the last sentence, and I felt an unfamiliar sort of hope bloom. We made love again, but this time it was quieter—less urgent, more like uncovering a map together.

❖ 

The alarm buzzed like a restless insect, its tone cutting through the cocoon of silence that had wrapped itself around the farmhouse bedroom. My hand fumbled toward the nightstand, half-asleep, swatting at the clock until it went quiet.

For a long moment, I lay there with my face buried in the pillow, the scent of her perfume still clinging to the sheets, like a reminder that last night had not been a fever dream. But when I reached my arm across the bed, the space beside me was empty.

The sheets were cool, the indentation where her body had been already fading. A faint sound carried across the room—the steady hiss and fall of water.

The shower. Tiffany was in the bathroom.

I blinked up at the ceiling, the corners of my lips tugging into a smile despite the grogginess. My body was heavy with the aftermath of last night.

It felt like proof. Proof of every vow whispered against skin.

The water cut off with a twist of metal, and minutes later, the bathroom door opened. A billow of steam escaped, curling into the cool air of the room.

Tiffany stepped out, her damp hair clinging in rivulets to her neck, drops of water sliding along her collarbone. She wore nothing but a towel wrapped hastily around her.

She caught my gaze, that spark of mischief already there, though she pretended otherwise. “Avery,” she said, arching a brow, “do you mind if I borrow your shirt again? I’ll have to go home and get ready for university afterward.”

I stretched, still sprawled against the bed, watching her. “Well,” I drawled, my voice still husky from sleep, “every shirt of mine looks good on you, Tiffany. But you know what? You look even more beautiful without putting anything on.”

Her eyes widened, the kind of wide that warned of equal parts shock and scolding. “Avery!” she exclaimed, pressing her lips together to hide the twitch of a smile. “Shut up and get me a shirt.”

I laughed under my breath, dragging myself from the warmth of the bed. My bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and I walked over to her, unable to resist brushing my fingers against her damp hair.

“You’re too easy to fluster,” I teased before tugging her toward the wardrobe. She rolled eyes but did not resist, opening the polished wooden doors.

Her fingers hovered before settling on a black shirt, crisp and simple, the kind that would drape over her frame. She pulled out a pair of black pajamas to match, holding them like a decision had been made.

“Okay then,” she said, as if finalizing some deal. “I’m leaving. I’ll be waiting for you at university.”

Her words hit with a sudden, unwanted finality. The thought of her walking away from this morning so easily made my chest constrict.

Before she could move another step, I reached out and caught her wrist. Her skin was still damp from the shower, soft under my grip.

“Wait,” I murmured. She turned, eyes questioning.

“Where’s my morning kiss?” Her lips quirked into that half-smirk, half-smile she wore whenever she was both amused and annoyed.

“I don’t recall promising you any such thing,” she countered, trying to tug her hand free. I did not let go.

“Promises or not, Tiffany,” I said, “I want one.” For a moment, she stood there, pretending to weigh her options, though her eyes betrayed her—softening, yielding, melting in that way she tried so hard to resist.

Then, with a sigh, she leaned forward and pressed a peck to my lips. The kiss was light, fleeting, but it was hers, and it was enough to send a jolt through me.

She pulled back, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “There. Happy now?” she asked, a little breathless.

I leaned closer, my hand brushing down her arm before releasing her wrist. “Not really,” I admitted, my grin wicked and teasing. “But it’ll do. For now.”

Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Impossible.” She grabbed the shirt and pajamas, slipping quickly into them as if the act of wearing something of mine could shield her from how undone she truly looked.

When she was dressed, she turned toward the door, lifting her chin in that proud, determined way of hers. “I’ll see you at university,” she said, her voice carrying more steadiness than her flushed cheeks allowed.

I watched her for a long moment, memorizing the sight of her in my black shirt. She looked both out of place and as if she belonged nowhere else.

As she stepped out of the room, I let myself fall back against the bed, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. A smile tugged at my lips despite the empty space she left behind.

I already knew—the day at university would be nothing like ordinary. I had an engagement to fight, a professor to claim, and a future to rewrite.

I would start by showing up late to class, wearing the faint, intoxicating exhaustion of a woman who had finally chosen her own path. The game had changed.

And the rules, as Tiffany said, were now ours to write.