[Miles’ POV]
I wake with Rae still in my arms, which feels like winning a lottery I never bought a ticket for. The morning light cuts through my blinds in stripes, illuminating the disaster zone of tangled sheets and discarded clothing.
Her hair is splayed across my chest like expensive blonde seaweed, and she's drooling slightly on my collarbone.
It's the most beautiful sight I've ever witnessed. I'm clearly beyond help.
She stirs around seven, blinking up at me with the confused expression of someone whose brain hasn't yet downloaded the day's agenda. Then memory loads, and her eyes widen.
"The vote," she croaks. "The board vote is today."
"Good morning to you too. I'm fine, thanks for asking. The weather appears to be weather-adjacent."
She's already scrambling out of bed, stealing my sheet in the process and leaving me exposed to the cruel morning air. "I need to shower. I need coffee. I need—why don't you own more towels? Two towels is a lifestyle choice that concerns me."
"It's minimalism. Very trendy. Marie Kondo would approve."
"Marie Kondo would stage an intervention." She disappears into my bathroom, and I hear the shower start with its usual death-rattle that suggests the pipes are negotiating a labor dispute.
I make coffee while she commandeers my bathroom like an occupying force. By the time she emerges wrapped in one of my two towels—proving her earlier criticism had merit—I've assembled breakfast options consisting of slightly stale cereal and optimism.
"Is that my toothbrush?" I ask as she pads toward the kitchen, mouth foamy.
"Our toothbrush now. Relationships require sacrifice."
"We haven't even discussed whether we're officially—"
"I used your toothbrush. We're official." She rinses and spits with the authority of someone who's just resolved a complex legal matter. "That's binding. Check the precedents."
I hand her coffee made exactly right—oat milk, no sugar, temperature calibrated to her impatience—and watch her take the first sip with an expression bordering on religious experience.
"Thank you," she says, softer now. "For this. For last night. For all of it."
"You're welcome. Though I should mention my toothbrush is non-negotiable. That's a boundary."
Her laugh echoes off my kitchen tiles, and something in my chest does complicated origami. Today determines her entire future. Today, a room full of people who've been calculating my net worth decide whether she's worthy of inheriting a company she's already proven she can lead.
The tension underneath our banter hums like power lines—constant, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
"I should head to Florisight," I offer. "Get inventory organized while you're at the vote. Text me when there's news, and I'll either celebrate with you or start researching witness protection programs depending on the outcome."
Rae sets down her coffee cup with deliberate care. "No."
"No to witness protection? Because I've heard Montana is nice—"
"No to you waiting at the warehouse." She crosses the kitchen, standing close enough that I can count the freckles the morning light reveals across her nose. "I want you there. With me. In the boardroom."
"Rae, that's not—I'm not a Valmont. I'm not board-appropriate. I own exactly one suit and it's seen better decades. Possibly better centuries."
"I don't care." Her hands find my chest, fingers pressing against my heartbeat like she's counting.
"I'm done hiding. I'm done performing for people who don't matter while pretending you don't exist. If I'm claiming this inheritance, I'm doing it with you beside me. The board can deal with it, or they can find someone else to run their company."
"That's dramatic. I appreciate the gesture, but—"
"It's not a gesture." Her eyes meet mine, fierce and certain. "You're my choice, Miles. My actual choice, not the strategic one or the convenient one. I want everyone to see that. I want you to see that."
I want to argue. I want to list every logical reason this is a terrible idea—the optics, the scrutiny, the fact that my suit jacket has a mysterious stain that might be mustard or might be evidence of a condiment-related incident I've suppressed.
Instead, I say: "Okay."
Her smile could power cities.
The Valmont building looms like a monument to generational wealth and architectural intimidation. We walk in together—her hand clasped in mine, both of us pretending our palms aren't sweating—and every head in the lobby turns.
The security guard who's seen me deliver flowers now watches me enter through the executive entrance, his expression suggesting he's recalculating several assumptions.
The boardroom is everything I expected: intimidating, expensive, full of people who've been assessing my market value since the scandal broke.
Crystal water glasses that cost more than my monthly groceries. Leather chairs that probably have better healthcare than I do. Portraits of dead Valmonts staring with perpetual ancestral disappointment.
Beatrice presides at the head of the table, expression carved from material scientists haven't yet classified. She nods once at Rae, glances at me, and calls the meeting to order.
Rae's presentation is flawless. She's commanding, articulate, everything a CEO should be—strategic vision, growth projections, market analysis delivered with the confidence of someone who's been preparing for this her entire life.
I watch her command the room and feel something expand in my chest that has nothing to do with professional admiration.
Then Laurent stands to speak.
The room tenses. Every board member shifts, bracing for sabotage. I find myself leaning forward, ready to—what? Tackle a fifty-year-old man in a boardroom? My defensive instincts need recalibration.
"I orchestrated the leak." Laurent's voice carries across the silence like a controlled detonation.
"I hired investigators, I exposed the arrangement, I attempted to undermine my daughter's succession because I was afraid. Afraid of losing her to someone I couldn't control. Afraid she'd make choices I didn't understand."
The room holds its breath.
"I was wrong." His eyes find Rae, and something breaks in his expression. "She doesn't need my protection. She needs my support. I publicly endorse Aurelia Valmont as my mother's successor. She's earned this—through work, through vision, through refusing to become the person I tried to make her."
Beatrice's face does something I've never seen before—it softens. She surveys the room with the efficiency of someone who's been counting votes her entire life.
"All in favor?"
Hands rise. Every hand. Unanimous.
Rae wins.
The chaos that follows is champagne corks and handshakes and board members who were calculating my inadequacy three hours ago now treating me like furniture that came with the acquisition.
I hang back, letting her have this moment—the congratulations, the validation, the culmination of everything she's fought for.
But she finds me anyway. Crosses the room with purpose, ignoring a board member mid-sentence, and stops in front of me with an expression that makes my heart forget its basic operational requirements.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi yourself. Congratulations, CEO."
She kisses me. Not strategically, not for performance, not to prove anything to anyone watching. Just because she wants to. Her hands curl into my terrible jacket, pulling me closer while a room full of people she's just inherited watches.
When we finally separate, Henderson is staring with his mouth open, Beatrice is almost smiling, and Laurent looks like a man who's finally learned to let go.
"So," I manage, voice rough, "does this mean I get a raise?"
Rae laughs against my lips. "You get everything."
For once, I believe her.