Marla’s POV
There’s a specific kind of silence that wraps around you before the storm. Not the peaceful kind. The buzzing, anxious kind. The kind where your heart races like it knows something’s coming and your lungs forget how to do their damn job. That’s the silence I stood in right before I stepped through the Mercer press doors.
I could hear the media chaos on the other side. Voices, footsteps, and equipment being set up. Ives stood next to me, calm like always. How he managed to keep his jaw relaxed when I felt like my knees were made of Jell-O, I didn’t know.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” I said. “But let’s go anyway.”
His fingers brushed against mine, quietly asking permission. I didn’t hesitate. I laced mine through his and squeezed. We walked in together. The room exploded the second we entered. Flashes. Microphones. Reporters yelling over one another like sharks in a frenzy.
“Is it true?”
“Was the engagement real?”
“Is this a cover-up?”
“Where’s Ava?”
I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t here to play damage control. I wasn’t here to apologize for protecting myself. I was here to own what happened. We made it to the podium, and I stepped forward first. My heart was hammering. My mouth was dry. But my voice? Clear.
“My name is Marla Quintell,” I said. “And yes, our engagement started as a business deal.”
You could hear the oxygen leave the room, actual gasps. A man in the third row said, “No way,” like we were on a reality show. I kept going.
“We signed a contract. It was strategic. Smart, even. But it wasn’t honest. Not to you. Not to ourselves.” I glanced at Ives. He looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
“So I’m not here to play spin doctor,” I said. “I’m here to say that I made a mistake. I let myself be part of something fake… until it wasn’t fake anymore.” That’s when he stepped up beside me. Calm. Certain. His voice steady like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“I won’t repeat what she said. She said it better than I could.” He paused. “But I need you to hear this from me, too.” And then he turned to me. Not the crowd. Me.
“Somewhere in the middle of pretending,” he said, “I started memorizing the way your voice sounded when you laughed at your own jokes. I noticed how you make coffee too strong but still drink it like it’s a ritual. I fell for you, Marla. No contracts. No clauses. I just… fell.” My chest tightened. My grip on the podium faltered. He kept going.
“And I let you walk away to protect you. But I’m not doing that anymore. I don’t want silence. I don’t want to be fake. I want us. Out in the open. All of it.” Then-“I love you, Marla.”
I heard it, and something in me broke open. In a good way… in a terrifying way. Because that wasn’t a PR line, that wasn’t a man trying to fix his image. That was him. And for a second, everything, the cameras, the chaos, the past, just vanished. I didn’t care that we were being watched. I didn’t care if this made tomorrow’s headlines worse.
“I love you too,” I said, breath catching halfway through.
He took my face in his hands, eyes searching mine like he was still making sure I meant it. I did. So I kissed him. Right there, in front of everyone. No strategy, no pretending, just me and the man who wrecked me, rebuilt me, and somehow made me want more. And then… He reached into his pocket. Wait. What?
“I wasn’t gonna do this here,” he muttered, voice just low enough for me to hear. “But honestly, I’m done waiting.” He turned to the crowd. The press went dead quiet again, again. Like they sensed something different was about to happen.
“I’ve made a hundred mistakes,” Ives said. “But this isn’t going to be one of them.”
Then he dropped to one knee. Full-on dropped. In front of flashing cameras and open mouths and two dozen stunned reporters. He pulled out a ring. And my world tilted.
“No press contract. No public stunt. No deadline,” he said. “Marla Quintell, will you marry me… for real this time?” Tears hit before I could stop them. And all I could do was nod.
“Yes,” I whispered. Then louder. “Yes.” More flashes. Louder gasps. I think someone screamed. But none of it mattered. Because for once… this story? It was ours.