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Christian follows my line of sight.

"Do you think it means something?" I ask.

"Not yet." He pauses. "I just don’t like silence from people who enjoy leverage."

A cold little thread pulls low in my gut and I hate that he’s right, because deep down, I’ve been waiting for more of a fight. We haven’t gotten one.

"Don’t let it ruin your night," Christian says, which in Christian language means I know it already has a little.

"Helpful."

"I just wanted to touch base with you. See if you’ve heard from Aunt Genevieve or anyone from the trust board. Maybe Jeremy or Everly have been receiving requests for proof from them?"

"Everly has said anything and Jeremy’s been busy taking on a bigger role. He hasn’t mentioned anything though."

He reaches for the suite door, then stops.

"For what it’s worth," he says without looking at me, "she seems very comfortable in there. Even if they do come back with a fight, I don’t think there’s anything they can prove."

Maybe.

But maybe has never been a safe enough margin when there’s this much on the line.

He glances back once, expression unreadable. "Just don’t get too comfortable."

Then he opens the door and walks back in.

I stay in the corridor for one second longer than necessary.

Inside the suite, Aria is still smiling.

Everything is right, and that’s the scariest place to be. I’ve lived long enough to know how rarely, for me, that stays untouched.

I put my hand on the door and go back in anyway.

Three full periods later, our guys win. The owner’s suite stays loud around us—plates of food, cocktails, easy laughter—but all I really notice is Aria. The way she looks happy here. The way she belongs more with every passing minute.

By the time the last of the players disappear down the tunnel, the arena has started to empty. The lights shift. The crowd noise fades.

Christian’s warning flickers once through my head.

If the trust decides to turn this into a fight, there’s too much at stake for me to leave anything to chance.

And that’s the problem.

Because she is beginning to feel less like something temporary in my life and more like the first real choice I’ve made in years that I would burn the rest down to keep.

I don’t say that.

What I do instead is lift her hand, press my mouth once to the ring on her finger, and murmur, "Come on."

Her eyes stay on mine for half a beat longer.

Then she lets me lead her out of the suite and back into the bright corridor, our hands clasped between us, the arena behind us, the night ahead.

And under all of it, quiet and unwelcome as a blade, is the certainty that happiness this good has never once felt safe.

Chapter Twenty-Six