Page 89 of Release Me
James nods. ‘I’ll see to it.’
The room hums with resolve. My brothers, my sister-in-law, all of them circling the wagons around me and Rebekka. Aroundus.
For the first time since Friday night, my pulse steadies.
Whatever’s coming, we won’t be facing it alone.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
REBEKKA
This has been the best week of my life.
Not in the champagne-and-chandeliers way that a lot of peers measure happiness with. Normally by Friday night, I’d have been paraded through two or three corporate dinners, smiling politely over five-course menus where Anthony talks business, and I die a little more inside with every sip of vintage Bordeaux.
This week, I’ve been working from Rian’s penthouse in my bare feet, with my laptop balanced on his kitchen island while he wanders through in joggers and no shirt, stealing my coffee and kissing the top of my head before heading out to one of his bars. But he’s always back within an hour.
I told Serena to cancel all my meetings or switch them to MSN Teams calls. I refuse to leave this beautiful bubble we’re cocooned in until I have to.
We’ve watched movies, curled up on his couch, ordered takeaway noodles at midnight, fallen asleep tangled in his sheets. I haven’t needed a sleep meditation all week.
It must be all the orgasms.
Or maybe it’s just him.
I feel a peace with him that I never felt in my life before.
Now I’ve stopped fighting it, stopped pretending everything was okay when it was so far from it, finally I can fall asleep at night.
Yes, I have worries, but I’m taking Rian’s advice, and I’m trying so hard not to dwell on them, and to see what unfolds. Rian assures me he’s looking for a solution, and the longer I’m here with him, the more desperately I’m hoping he finds one.
We haven’t left his penthouse. Haven’t done anything flashy or formal.
We’ve just hung out—albeit naked a lot of the time.
And God, it feels better than any Michelin-star meal ever could.
Which is probably why I’ve decided to do something utterly un-me tonight—cook.
I can’t even remember the last time I boiled an egg—there’s always been a housekeeper popping in and out, or a caterer, or Anthony sweeping me off to a restaurant before I even had the chance. But growing up in New York, my mother used to take me to this little hole-in-the-wall diner near Central Park. They sold burgers, milkshakes, fries so salty they left crystals on your lips. Pure comfort food. Home.
So tonight, that’s what I’m making for Rian.
The scent of frying onions and sizzling beef wafts through the penthouse, despite the fan humming above the stove. I flip the burger patties with all the precision of a nervous amateur. The sesame buns are warming in the oven. The pickles are sliced and ready. American cheese melting. A bottle of Beckett’s lager sweats on the counter beside me, waiting for him.
My phone has been buzzing all week—my mother demanding explanations. I gave her the full version. Left nothing out. I’m done hiding. Lying. Pretending.
She took it so much better than I thought, assuring me, even if I lose everything, my happiness is priceless. We both know my father will have an entirely different opinion, but that’s another story. At least I’ve paid back his original debt. Anthony can take Remington Ireland, but he can’t take Remington New York.
My husband’s calls have alternated between threats and honeyed persuasion. From his angry voicemails, I gather he thinks I’m staying with Avery. Her terrifying fiancé is probably the only thing stopping him turning up at their door.
I’ve ignored every call. But tonight, especially, I refuse to let anyone intrude.
Tonight is my chance to do something for Rian.
He’s done so much for me.
I hear the familiar click of polished shoes across marble. My pulse jumps. I smooth my hair with the back of my wrist, swipe a smear of ketchup off the counter, and pray the smoke alarm doesn’t choose this moment to betray me.
