Chapter 13: Confessions of the Heart
672words
What surprised me most was the friendship that bloomed between the two men. They were an unlikely pair—my blue-collar father and the billionaire CEO—yet they connected over fishing stories and sports debates.
"Your husband knows his baseball," Dad commented one evening as I brought them coffee. "For a fancy businessman."
"Don't let the suit fool you," Thorne replied with a grin. "I once considered going pro before the family business called."
I lingered in the doorway, watching them. Thorne looked different these days—more relaxed, smiling more often. The Ice Man had melted completely.
Later that night, I overheard them talking as I approached the sunroom with Dad's medication.
"She's happy," my father said. "Happier than I've seen her since her mother passed."
"I'm trying," Thorne replied softly.
"The way she looks at you," Dad continued, "it's exactly how her mother used to look at me. Like you hung the moon and stars."
I froze, my heart hammering. Was it that obvious?
"I don't deserve her," Thorne said, his voice rough with emotion.
"None of us deserve the people who love us," Dad replied. "We just try to be worthy of it every day."
I slipped away, their words echoing in my mind. The next morning, Finnegan intercepted me after breakfast.
"Mr. Blackwood requests you meet him in the east wing at noon," he said, a mysterious smile playing at his lips.
"The east wing? What's he up to?"
"Not my place to say, Mrs. Blackwood."
At noon, I made my way to the rarely used east wing. Thorne waited outside a closed door, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I've been working on something." He took my hand. "Close your eyes."
I obeyed, hearing the door open as he wheeled us forward.
"Now look."
I opened my eyes and gasped. The dusty old sitting room had been transformed into a beautiful art studio. Easels, canvases, paints in every color imaginable. A wall of windows let in perfect northern light.
"You mentioned once that you used to paint before your mother died," Thorne said quietly. "That you never had the chance to pursue it again."
Tears filled my eyes as I touched the brushes, arranged by size and type. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you tell me, Lyra."
I turned to him, overwhelmed. This wasn't a business transaction or a contractual obligation. This was something much more profound—he had listened, truly listened, to my dreams.
"Thorne, I—" The words caught in my throat.
"You don't have to say anything," he said quickly. "I just wanted you to have something that's yours in this house."
"I love you."
The words hung between us, impossible to take back. Thorne went completely still, his eyes widening.
"Not because of this," I continued, gesturing to the studio. "Not because of the contract or gratitude or anything else. I love you because you're you."
For a terrifying moment, he said nothing. Then he reached for me, pulling me onto his lap.
"I've been afraid to say it," he confessed, his voice rough. "Afraid you felt obligated, or that it was pity."
"Pity?" I laughed through my tears. "Have you met yourself? You're the most stubborn, brilliant, frustrating, wonderful man I've ever known."
His hands framed my face. "I love you, Lyra Blackwood. God help me, I've loved you since you walked into my study and refused to be intimidated by me."
When he kissed me, it felt like a beginning—not of a business arrangement or a convenient partnership, but of something real and lasting and true.
"So," I said when we finally broke apart, "does this mean I can redecorate the rest of this mausoleum?"
His laughter echoed through the halls of the mansion that, somehow, had become our home.
