Page 53 of The Love Clause

"I'm sorry," I begin, the words feeling woefully inadequate. "For everything. For misunderstanding what I overheard. For pushing you away. For what I said in my office."

"Which part specifically?" Her arms cross over her chest, a physical barrier between us. "The part where you implied I slept with you for money, or the part where you said none of it was real?"

"All of it," I admit, forcing myself to meet her gaze directly. "Every word was a lie. What we shared was real, Josie. The realest thing I've experienced in longer than I can remember."

Something flickers in her expression—a softening, maybe, though she maintains her defensive posture. "Then why? Why push me away like that? Why say such cruel things when I came to your office?"

"Because I was terrified," I admit, the confession costing me more than any legal defeat ever could. "I heard you talking about the money, about how it was 'always the point,' and I convinced myself that was all I was to you—a means to financial stability."

"You heard one part of a conversation and decided you knew everything," she says, but there's less heat in her voice now. "Did it ever occur to you to ask me what I meant?"

"No," I acknowledge. "Because asking would have meant risking the answer. It was easier to push you away first, to control the narrative, than to face the possibility that what I feared might be true."

"And what were you so afraid of, Elliot?" She steps closer, challenge in her eyes. "Really?"

"That you couldn't possibly feel for me what I feel for you," I say, the words emerging with surprising steadiness given how exposed I feel. "That someone as vibrant and genuine as you could never truly want someone as controlled and rigid as me. That without the financial incentive, there would be no reason for you to stay."

Her expression shifts, surprise replacing some of the anger. "You really believe that? That I couldn't want you for yourself?"

"I've spent my life being valued for what I can provide—success, status, financial security. Never just for who I am." The admission feels like removing armor I've worn so long I've forgotten it's not my skin. "You were never fake with me, Josie. Not once. But I've been pretending to be someone else my entire life."

"Elliot..." My name on her lips is softer now, the edge of anger dulled.

"You asked me once what I wanted beyond making partner and impressing old men with traditional values," I continue, stepping closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of paint and something floral that's uniquely her. "The answer is you. I want you, Josie. Your chaos, your honesty, your ability to see through every defense I've built. I love you. And I understand if it's too late, if I've ruined everything with my own insecurity and stubborn pride, but I needed you to know the truth."

She stares at me, eyes wide and searching, as if looking for any sign of insincerity. I meet her gaze openly, all pretense and protection stripped away.

"You hurt me," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Badly."

"I know. And I'll spend however long you'll let me making up for that."

"And if I say I need time? If I'm not ready to forgive you yet?"

"Then I'll wait," I promise. "For as long as it takes. I'm not good at this, Josie. I've never done any of this before—falling in love, making grand gestures, laying my heart bare. But I'm trying. For you. Because you matter more than my pride or my fear or anything else."

Something in her expression shifts, softens. She takes one more step toward me, close enough now that I could touch her if I dared.

"Say it again," she demands, her voice stronger now.

"I love you."

And then she's moving, closing the distance between us like a force of nature, launching herself into my arms with such momentum I nearly lose my balance. Her mouth finds mine in a kiss that's equal parts anger and forgiveness, need and homecoming.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she looks up at me with eyes that still hold a hint of wariness amid the warmth. "You don't get to run away again," she says, her hands fisted in my jacket lapels. "No matter how scared you get. No matter what you think you hear. You talk to me."

"I promise," I say, arms tightening around her waist, hardly able to believe she's really here, in my embrace again. "No more running. No more hiding behind work or control or anything else."

"Good." She kisses me again, softer this time. "Because I love you too, you impossible man. God help me, but I do."

The words fill a void I hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment. Not just relief that she forgives me, but something deeper—the knowledge that for the first time in my life, I am seen and wanted for exactly who I am, not what I can provide or achieve.

"Now," she says, a familiar mischievous glint returning to her eyes, "take me to your place and show me how sorry you really are."

And for once in my meticulously planned life, I do exactly as I'm told.

TWENTY-ONE

Josie

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