Until the Final I Do

Chapter Twenty-three

SPENCER

I wake up cold. Not the kind of cold you feel when the temperature dips, but the kind that seeps into your bones—the kind that comes when something, or someone, is missing.

My hand reaches across the bed instinctively, searching for her. For the warmth, the softness... the proof that last night wasn't some desperate dream. But all I find is cool, empty sheets.

Then I sit up. Her clothes—strewn across my floor hours ago in a flurry of passion—are gone. Her scent lingers faintly in the air, a soft trace of roses, but she's not here.

Brooklyn left.

My heart sinks, dragging my stomach with it.

I shouldn't be surprised. I don't even blame her. The gravity of what happened between us hasn't fully settled. Maybe it never will. My mind keeps trying to convince me it was just a dream. That her body never melted into mine. That I never kissed her until we forgot where we were. But I know better. I can still taste her lips. Still feel the pressure of her fingertips as they scraped across my back. Still hear the way she whispered my name when she thought the world was quiet.

It was real.

And I would relive it a thousand times over, even knowing she'd vanish by morning.

I collapse back onto the mattress and roll to her side—the side she always claimed when we were younger. The right side. I bury my face into her pillow. It smells like her. God, she still smells like wildflowers and vanilla, and I hate that I love it. I inhale again like a man suffocating without her.

What kills me the most isn't the fact that she left.

It's that she left and didn't wake me to say goodbye.

My thoughts flicker back to last night—how she showed up out of nowhere, her eyes wide with guilt and want. How we talked about everything and nothing. How her lips found mine like they were never meant to leave. And how I forgot every reason we shouldn't be doing what we did.

Her touch ignited something in me I haven't felt in years.

I love her. That's the part I can't deny. I love Brooklyn West, even if she's promised to someone else. Even if every second we shared was stolen. Even if she never walks back through that door again.

To me, she's still the girl I fell in love with—and I would ruin myself all over again just to feel her one more time.

A knock yanks me out of my thoughts, echoing loudly in the quiet apartment. I groan and drag myself out of bed, throwing on a pair of basketball shorts. The last thing I want is company.

When I swing the door open, I'm surprised to see a familiar face staring back at me.

"Hey, man," says Tristan, my older brother, pulling me into a hug before I can speak.

We step inside, and I try to shake off the emotional weight that's clinging to me.

"How's Florida treating you?" he asks, glancing around the apartment.

"Good," I reply, though my voice lacks enthusiasm. "But I miss the back roads of South Carolina. The quiet. Daytona and New York can't compete with home."

He nods, knowingly. "Yeah. Home has a way of making everything else feel temporary."

I shrug and gesture to the couch. "How's Isabell?"

A proud smile blooms across his face as he pulls out his phone and shows me the lock screen. "She's perfect. Still cries like crazy, but when she's sleeping, it's like the world stops."

The picture of his wife holding their newborn makes something ache deep in my chest. I want that. A daughter who falls asleep in my arms. A life that's filled with love instead of longing. And I want it with Brooklyn.

I imagine a little girl with her straight hair and my eyes—bright and unshakable. A small version of the woman I love, running through the house, giggling. My chest tightens at the thought.

"She's beautiful," I manage.

Tristan leans back and takes a breath. "Anyway, I didn't just come to talk about the baby."

I raise a brow. "Let me guess. The will?"

He nods. "Yeah. I wanted to give you a heads-up... because Elijah is pissed."

"Elijah's always pissed," I mutter.

"True. But this time it's worse. He was already furious when Dad gave Brooklyn half the company. You should've seen his face. He was on the phone with someone right after the reading—yelling, making threats. He said something about 'getting the shares by any means necessary.' He's not going to let this go."

I clench my jaw. My fists tighten at my sides. "If he so much as breathes in Brooklyn's direction, I'll end him."

"I figured you'd say that," Tristan says cautiously. "That's why I wanted to warn you. Elijah doesn't play fair. He's manipulative, cruel, and driven by greed. You and I both know the rumors—about Hilltop Hotels? That murder? No one proved it, but... people talk."

My knuckles go white as I grip the edge of the table.

"He won't touch her," I snap. "I don't care what it takes. I'll protect her with everything I have."

Tristan watches me carefully. "You really still love her, don't you?"

I swallow hard. "More than ever."

"You know she's getting married."

"I know," I say. "But that doesn't change anything."

There's silence between us. The kind that's heavy with truth.

"She's not married yet," I add. "And until she says 'I do,' I'm going to fight for her. I'm not letting her go without showing her exactly how much she still means to me."

Tristan lets out a low whistle. "You're all in, huh?"

"She's it, Tristan. The one. The only. I lost her once. I won't make that mistake again."

My brother claps a hand on my shoulder and nods. "Then go get her."

And just like that, I know what I have to do.

This isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

I'll fight for her until the final "I do." And if I'm lucky, I'll be the one standing at the end of the aisle when she says it.