Chapter 102 – Ivan POV
Zander's in the shower.
And I'm done waiting.
I told myself I'd be patient, that I'd give him space. Let him open up in his own time. But it's driving me nuts.
He's been off for weeks—nervous, twitchy, saying the most random things and then zoning out mid-conversation like he's buffering. Then suddenly this trip: just the two of us, on a smaller yacht than usual. No staff. No chefs. No security. Just… this floating love bubble and vague, nervous smiles.
I know something's up. And I need to know what.
I creep toward his bag like I'm in a spy movie. Careful. Quiet. Quick. If he catches me snooping, I'll never hear the end of it.
I unzip the duffel slowly and dig around like I'm looking for gum but might find secrets.
Under a pair of sweatpants, I see it.
A small, velvet box.
My stomach drops.
I pause, frozen.
I don't even touch it. Just stare.
Holy shit.
That's a ring box.
That is 100% a ring box.
Okay. Breathe.
Nope. Not breathing. I'm dying.
I slam the bag shut like it might bite me and back away. My heart's going at hummingbird speed. My brain? Offline. I have no thoughts—just white noise and sparkles and internal screaming.
"What are you doing?"
I whip around like a guilty raccoon.
Zander's standing there, towel around his waist, wet hair clinging to his forehead. He's smirking. Amused. Dangerous.
In my hand? One of his t-shirts.
I hold it up. "Trying to figure out why you even packed if I'm just going to steal your clothes anyway."
He laughs, all warm and smug. "Why bother packing your own clothes if you were going to steal mine?"
"What are you gonna do?" I ask, backing toward the bathroom with a defiant snicker. "Fight me?"
"Tempting."
I walk to shower and shut door behind me before I combust.
I lean against the door and exhale in absolute, chaotic silence.
Then scream—mutely—into the air like a possessed kettle.
I saw it.
I SAW IT.
THE RING.
I pace for a second, heart pounding in my throat. Okay. Deep breath. It could be earrings. It could be cufflinks. A very large candy. A… tiny magical book? No. I'm lying to myself. I know what I saw.
He brought me to a yacht.
He's been nervous.
He packed his good cologne.
HE'S GOING TO PROPOSE.
I strip with the enthusiasm of a man shedding mortal sin and jump into the shower, water hitting my face like a baptism.
Marriage.
Marriage?
MARRIAGE??
I blink under the hot spray, stunned, dazed. My hands reach for shampoo like they're on autopilot. Meanwhile, my brain is spinning like a broken CD.
He wants to marry me.
He wants to marry me.
Me.
I run my fingers through my hair, water trickling down my back.
And yet—
Do I want to marry him?
The thought hits, soft and clear.
Yes.
I smile before I even mean to. My stomach flutters like someone poured soda into it. The good kind of nerves. The kind that makes you want to giggle like a child, even while your heart's doing backflips.
Yes. I do.
He's the only person I've ever felt this safe with. This seen. This… chosen.
Zander Vale—billionaire CEO, borderline terrifying alpha, secretly an absolute dork—wants to spend the rest of his life with me.
And I want that.
I want his sleepy morning face. His cooking. His dramatic eye rolls. The way he carries me like I'm weightless when I twist my ankle walking three steps. I want every version of him.
I rinse the soap from my skin, grinning like an idiot.
But now I have a huge problem.
I know.
And I have to act normal.
Like I didn't just find out he's planning to ask me to be his husband.
Oh god. Husband.
How do omega laws work?
Would I be Mr. Vale? But he's Zander Vale. Mr. and Mr. Vale? Wait—does one of us have to hyphenate? Am I going to have to get a matching nameplate on my office door? Are there… prenups?
I am spiraling.
I wrap a towel around myself and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My cheeks are red. My eyes are too bright. I look unhinged.
Okay. Get it together, Ivan. Act cool. Normal. Casually, blissfully unaware.
I tug his shirt over my head—the one I "stole"—and take a deep breath.
I'm getting married.
I'm getting married.
I want to scream it into the ocean.
But instead, I step out, dry my hair, and walk back into the room with the most Oscar-worthy acting face I can manage.