Chapter 54

Avery’s POV

The suffocating air of the Grand Ballroom clung to my satin dress, a heavy perfume of champagne, forced laughter, and deceit. I had clawed my way out of the cage my mother constructed for my twenty-fifth birthday—a gala that ended in a hostile takeover of my future.

I could hear the chime of her voice amplified over the sound system, sealing my fate: “And of course, everyone, next year we will be celebrating Avery and Auston’s wedding right here in the West Wing! A perfect union of two perfect dynasties!” The words were an execution order.

An alliance forged in the currency of stock options and real estate portfolios. My entire life flashed before my eyes, culminating in this gilded lie that she thrust upon me without consultation.

The worst part, the reason the silk of my dress felt like barbed wire, was the silence from Tiffany since the announcement. She was not at the hotel.

She would not answer my frantic texts. She must think I was complicit, that the defiant Avery Von Carter had surrendered, trading our real thing for the predictable comfort of the Von Carter legacy.

I told the driver to skip the after-party and drive to the one place that felt like sanity. The place where Tiffany was.

The drive was a blur of panic and dread. Each mile intensified the fear that the lie had done its work, that I had lost her before I could tell her the truth: I will never marry him.

The black Maybach, still emanating the aura of a billionaire’s chariot, looked absurd parked outside the worn iron gates of the orphanage. It was a symbol of the two worlds tearing me apart.

I wrenched the door open and sprinted across the pavement, the heels of my gala shoes clicking a desperate rhythm. I burst through the main door, the quiet air of the common room washing over my skin.

My eyes flew to the heart of the room, and there she was. Tiffany.

She stood near the communal fireplace, looking beautiful in a simple cardigan and jeans, her dark hair loose, her hands gesturing as she spoke to a knot of children. She laughed, a warm sound that anchored me.

I opened my mouth, the speech of denial and devotion ready to spill out—the Von Carter is not for sale, my heart belongs to you, it was all a lie—but the room erupted. A unified wave of high-pitched voices drowned out the tension.

“Happy birthday to you!”

“Happy birthday to you!”

They surged toward me, clapping, their faces alight with joy that had nothing to do with dynasty or wealth. “Happy birthday dear Avery! Happy birthday to you!”

I stopped dead, my feet rooted to the spot. The simplicity of the gesture stole my breath.

My birthday. The corporate schedule, the nightmare gala, the terror of my mother’s betrayal—it had all turned into a casualty of war.

And yet, here they were, these souls remembering me. My eyes stung, a heat blooming behind my eyelids.

The raw affection from these children, unlike the transactional love of my family, was a wrecking ball to my composure. I felt the dreaded sting of tears threatening to fall—the ultimate surrender.

I dragged my gaze from the happy chaos and found Tiffany’s eyes. She stood back, watching me with intensity, her expression soft but watchful.

She sensed my breaking point. As if transmitting a silent message, she shook her head, a minute, knowing movement.

It was a command: Don’t you dare cry. Not here. Not now. Hold.

That silent communication held me together. I took a shuddering breath that barely moved my chest, straightened my spine beneath the weight of the dress, and forced a hard-won smile onto my face.

“Oh, wow. Thank you, everyone. This is… this is truly the best surprise I could have ever imagined.”

Before I could do anything else, Fiona, the preteen ringleader, launched herself into a hug. “Happy birthday to the hero of everyone here, Avery!”

Then Joe, earnest, followed suit. “And me too! Happy birthday!”

Just as I returned the second hug, a loud horn blast echoed from outside, followed by the rumble of an unfamiliar truck. Joe’s eyes went wide.

“I see!” he shouted, dashing to the door, returning moments later with two catering men carrying industrial-sized food crates, steaming at the corners. They were dropped onto the tables, the men tipped and dispatched with a wave from Tiffany, and the scent of food filled the air.

My heart swelled, a mixture of gratitude and devotion overwhelming me. This was all her.

I knelt down, sinking to the floor, uncaring of the silk, the diamonds, or the wrinkle lines. I spread my arms wide.

Every single child in that room understood the signal. They came running, a joyful stampede, a warm, messy avalanche of small limbs, bright laughter, and sticky affection.

They piled onto me, whispering wishes and pressing quick, real kisses against my lips—kisses that meant more than any formal salute. “Okay, okay, my little darlings! Stop!” I gasped out, pinned beneath the loving weight. “Let’s stop this here! Because it’s officially time to start this amazing party and eat everything on sight!”

A chorus of squeals erupted, the sound of pure happiness. Tiffany, regaining her role as the organizer, looked toward the staff and gave a decisive nod.

They went to work, emptying the crates. The tables were laden with the bounty: lopsided cake, colorful biscuits, stacks of chocolate bars, and steaming pizzas.

The children gathered around the tables, their concentration shifting to the business of feasting. It was in this moment of sugary chaos that I found my opening.

My eyes found Tiffany. She stood apart, near the window, her arms crossed, watching the children with protective tenderness.

She had not acknowledged the elephant in the room—the Auston announcement—and I knew she would not until I made her. I walked toward her, my shoes silent on the worn floor.

She saw my approach, and when I stopped beside her, she did not turn her head, only met my gaze in the dark glass. The warmth in her eyes was there, but beneath it lay that shadow of doubt.

“I want to talk to you,” I said, my voice low, vibrating with the confession I needed to make. “I need to tell you everything that happened, and that none of it is true. The wedding is a lie, a merger. I won’t—”

She turned, silencing me with a look. “We will talk, Avery. I promise we will. But right now, this is for you, and we need to focus on this. Their joy is fragile.”

She slipped away, walking toward the main table. My panic returned, thinking she was retreating, but then she returned, carrying a small plate of cake.

I thought, hopefully, She’s going to feed me. This is her silent acceptance, her forgiveness.

But instead, she reached out, took my hand in a decisive grip that sent an electric current up my arm, and pulled me toward the dark, imposing staircase that led up to the administrative floor. “What are we doing, Tiffany?” I whispered, confused, my earlier fear replaced by an intensity already starting to burn in my veins.

“What’s upstairs?” We reached the end of the hall.

She pushed open the door to a dusty office, pulled me in, and clicked the door shut, plunging us into a sound-dampened silence thick with tension and the scent of old paper. She did not answer my question.

She looked at the plate of cake. Then, in a movement that was captivating, she dug the fork in, brought a messy bite of the creamy cake to her own mouth, and closed her eyes as she tasted the vanilla and sugar.

I watched, frozen, the world outside evaporating. She dropped the fork onto the plate with a soft clatter against the wood desk.

Then, with an intensity that stole my breath, she placed her mouth passionately onto mine. The kiss was a hungry collision of lips and intent, a desperate question and an equally desperate answer.

And there it was, transferred onto my tongue, the taste of the very same simple, buttery cake, the warm, comforting flavor of vanilla and sugar that had been on her lips, now mingling with the electric taste of her. It was a physical transfer of a birthday wish.

She pulled back, her breath ragged, her eyes dark, deep, and blazing with a raw, triumphant heat. “Happy birthday, darling,” she whispered, the words a low, guttural growl of possession that sent a wave of fire down my spine.

I stood there, flabbergasted, my entire body humming with the shock of the kiss and the sensual audacity of the act. My world, which had been dominated by the strategy of the ballroom, had just been rewritten by a cake-flavored kiss in a dusty office.

She chuckled, a low, sexy, knowing sound, tilting her head back against the closed door, victorious. “Why are you so surprised, Avery? Didn’t you come all the way here, in full gala attire, essentially asking for a birthday wish that only I could grant?”

In that charged, pivotal moment, something powerful, untamed, something Von Carter snapped inside of me. All the suppressed panic, the cold fury from my mother’s betrayal, the fear of losing this fierce, honest woman, and all the defiant, sensual hunger I reserved for corporate negotiations—it all crystallized into a white-hot resolve.

I was not in the mood for retreat. I was not in the mood for gentle conversation.

I was not in the mood for letting her grant me a wish and then walk away unscathed. My eyes dropped to the plate of cake still sitting on the dusty desk, a weapon waiting to be used.

I grabbed the plate in one movement and plunged my fingers into the sticky, rich cream. Before she could react, I smeared the cold, sweet frosting across her surprised cheek, tracking a messy stripe down her elegant, exposed neck, like a sweet brand.

“Avery! What the hell is this?” she gasped, momentarily stunned, the shock dissolving into a mix of disbelief and laughter.

I met her eyes, mine dark and unyielding, the heiress finally claiming her life. “If you’re going to do this, Professor,” I said, my voice low, thick with a need that felt out of control, “then you are going to do it properly. You don’t just give me the taste of heaven and then walk away, not when there’s still evidence left behind.”

And then, I leaned in, and my tongue took over, taking on its new, urgent, exquisite job. I started at her cheek, the sweet cream and the warm salt of her skin mingling, creating a flavor that was addictive.

I traced the entire, messy line of the cream, down, following the trail I had painted toward the hollow of her throat, my lips parting, my breath hot against her skin. My tongue worked, cleaning the trace, making sure there were no visible traces of the cream left once I had placed my mouth on her.

The cleanup was slow, painstaking, sensual, a prolonged act of possession that spoke volumes without a single word exchanged. When I pulled back, my breathing shallow, Tiffany’s eyes were wide, dark, and glazed over with a silent, fierce, reciprocal passion that mirrored my own.

“Are you serious, Avery Von Carter?” she breathed out, her voice a rough tremor of disbelief and surrender. “Very much so, Professor,” I confirmed, matching her low tone, my smile now a predatory, honest thing that felt more real than my mother’s party.

She laughed, a low, throaty, joyous sound of acceptance. “Oh, God. Now I will have to clean all of this off, you impossible woman. You’ve ruined your beautiful dress.”

“Yes,” I agreed, my finger tracing the lingering wetness on her neck. “And I believe I’ll have to clean up too. The damage is done.”

I took her hand, the earlier tension dissolved, replaced by a reckless, powerful intimacy, and led her to the attached storage-room bathroom. There, beneath the weak, dusty fluorescent light, she scrubbed the final traces of the cream from her face and neck, and I cleaned my sticky fingers and lips, smoothing the material of my ruined dress.

Our eyes met in the mirror, sharing a triumphant, silent, electric conspiracy that sealed our truth. The urgency was gone, replaced by a fierce understanding.

The lie, the engagement, the Von Carter weight—it was all still there, outside that door, waiting. But in this shared, secret space, it had been neutralized, defeated by a messy slice of cake and a moment of truth.

When we returned downstairs, hand in sticky hand, looking only rumpled and too flushed for two people who had been “tidying up,” the children were still immersed in their feast. But Fiona, the sharp-eyed guardian, stood by the stairs, her expression a mix of knowing maturity and mischief.

She looked at us—at the genuine, warmth in our eyes, the dishevelment of our clothes—and back down at her plate, a teasing smile spreading across her face. She did not utter a word, but her glance said everything that needed to be said about what had transpired.

I squeezed Tiffany’s hand, smiled a relieved smile, and moved past Fiona toward the main table. The children, full of sugar, pizza, and glee, swarmed me again, wanting to engage their “Hero”.

I sat down amongst them, the cold, hard floor feeling warm, surrounded by the mess of plates and wrappers. “Avery, why does your hair shine like that? Is it really made of gold?”

“Avery, can you really buy a whole country if you want to?” 

“Avery, did you really meet a handsome prince?”

And I answered that question. “No darlings I just found my beautiful Queen.”

I answered every single nonsensical, absurd, wonderful question they threw at me, inventing fantastic stories, letting their innocent, non-transactional attention wash over me, cleansing the residue of the toxic corporate world. I laughed, truthfully, more freely than I had in the last year.

And as I sat there, happy, sticky with unknown sweet substances, and engaged in the most genuine party I had ever known, I looked up. Across the room, standing apart, was Tiffany.

She was watching me, her head tilted, a deep, silent, unwavering love radiating from her dark, beautiful eyes. It was a look that bypassed my wealth, dismissed my reputation, and ignored the lie of the Auston engagement.

It saw only me: Avery. Her defiant, messy, beloved girl.

In that profound, heart-stopping moment, with the sound of the children’s laughter ringing in my ears and the memory of the cake-flavored kiss still warm on my lips, the truth hit me with a blinding, final clarity. This.

This genuine, messy, spontaneous, loving chaos, overseen and organized by the only woman who truly saw and accepted me. This, finally, was what a birthday—and a life—was meant to be.

And the Von Carter empire, I realized with a fierce certainty, could wait its turn. My life, my pace, my future, and my heart.

It was all unequivocally, deliciously mine.