Page 171 of Guarded King

“Shall we look around?” Roman asks a moment later.

I nod. “I can’t wait to see everything hung up.”

He snags a glass of champagne from a passing server and hands it to me before grabbing one for himself.

“We’ll be back soon,” I say to Dad and Carol, who are sipping from their own flutes and smiling happily as more well-wishers appear.

Roman wraps a warm, sure hand around mine and leads me into the crowd.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this—the sensation of dreams coming true. How it feels to chase after them instead of pushing them away, too scared to follow in case they leave me adrift and alone.

Now I’m standing beside the man I love as I take in Dad’s artwork displayed on the walls of one of Manhattan’s premier galleries. This is a dream I never even knew I had.

I’m still feeling my way when it comes to my own art. A year ago, Roman gave me a choice: to come back and work for him, stay with Wright Construction as a liaison, or look for another job. Each came with a proviso: I was expected to pursue my own dreams at the same time.

I chose to stay in my liaison role. I’m not sure how productive either Roman or I would be if I returned to working for him, considering how hard it is for us to keep our hands off each other. Staying at Wright Construction seemed the safer option.

He also offered me the option of leaving work completely and pursuing art full time with his support. I quickly removed that choice from the pool. As much as I love him, as much as I know he loves me, I need my independence. I need to know I can take care of myself.

He understands that too.

Which is why he shows me his love by standing beside me at every turn. He doesn’t hold me back, and he doesn’t lead the way so I can follow. He holds my hand, keeping me stable when I step outside my comfort zone or decide to color outside the lines I once drew around my life.

Some of my paintings now hang on the wall of True Brew—both the original shop in Brooklyn and the new one in the foyer of Genesis-1.

I’ve even sold a few pieces. I’ve found a niche, creating portraits of the people who fill the streets of New York. Nothing draws us closer than the touch of human connection; that moment when we look into another person’s face and see our own existence mirrored there.

Roman thinks I love painting people so much because, subconsciously, I want to populate the empty streets of my favorite of Dad’s paintings. The one that still graces the foyer of King Plaza.

Maybe he’s right. Dad paints the beauty of the city and I paint the beauty of the people who call it home.

My portrait of Roman hangs in my art studio, which is located inside his penthouse. He surprised me before I moved in by having one of the extra bedrooms converted. I was planning to hang the painting I did of the little boy, half Roman, half me, next to it. But when I showed it to him, he insisted on hanging it in the living room.

A reminder of a dream we share. A dream of us.

Now, as I nestle against his side and smile up at a painting of Central Park at dusk, with twilight shadows stretching across the grass and the skyline tinged with the soft glow of fading sunlight, my whole life feels like a dream fulfilled.

“Chloe.” Lola rushes up and throws her arms around me. Jamie, carrying a wiggling Christopher, grins at me from behind her.

I laugh as I disentangle myself from her. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“As if we’d miss it. Oh my goodness, your dad’s paintings are amazing. Where is he? I need to say hello. Then we’ll come and find you again.”

I point them in the right direction, and as Lola rushes off with her husband and son in tow, I smile up at Roman.

We have barely a minute to ourselves before a steady stream of friends and family appear. Sophie and her boyfriend, Marco, have come to support dad. Ethan, who’s become a good friend, and his brand-new fiancée, Caitlyn, are here too. Along with Cole and Delilah with Lottie, Tate and Violet, who were married six months ago, and Beverly and Miles, who have started talking about moving in together.

It’s enough to have my throat tightening and my eyes stinging.

By the end of the night, I’m an emotional wreck in the best possible way.

Now, in the back of the car, as Phillip takes us home through the late-night traffic and I’m cuddled up to Roman, I’ve never felt more content.

“Happy?” His voice is a deep rumble against my ear where it’s pressed to his chest.

I let out a soft sigh. “I don’t think anything could make me happier.”

The chuckle he lets out vibrates through me. “Is that a challenge?”

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