The spring sun was brilliant and warm, casting golden light across the newly unveiled South Boston Waterfront Cultural Pavilion and Botanical Conservatory.
The headlines in the Boston Globe and The Wall Street Journal had long since stopped talking about Graham Vale’s disgrace, focusing instead on the multibillion-dollar urban renewal project transforming the harbor district. The Vale family real estate holdings had been liquidated and absorbed by Moretti Ventures, and Evelyn Vale had quietly relocated to a secluded estate in Florida, far away from the city she could no longer control.
And Bellamy Blooms was no longer just a struggling neighborhood flower shop.
It was now the flagship architectural retail center of the entire waterfront pavilion—a magnificent glass-and-steel greenhouse featuring exotic blooms, design studios, and a flourishing community floral academy.
I stood on the second-floor balcony of the new pavilion, wearing a tailored cream-colored linen dress, looking down at the sunlit courtyards filled with laughing families, children running across the stone paths, and flower beds bursting with color.
The office door clicked open behind me, and Dante walked in.
He had shed his suit jacket, wearing a crisp charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, carrying two cups of artisanal coffee. He set one down on my drafting table, walking up behind me and wrapping his arms securely around my waist.
“How are the opening day visitor numbers looking, Madame Curator?” Dante teased gently, resting his chin comfortably on my shoulder.
“We’ve already exceeded our weekly projections by four hundred percent,” I smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, placing my hands over his. “The municipal conservatory is officially fully booked for weddings through next autumn.”
“Good,” Dante murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of my neck. “Though I expect our wedding will take priority over any public bookings.”
I turned around in his arms, looking up into his dark, steady eyes with a playful smile. “Is that an official proposal, Mr. Moretti?”
Dante reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a small black velvet box, and opened it to reveal a stunning vintage diamond ring set amidst a delicate platinum band carved like interlocking rose stems.
“It’s a corporate acquisition of your heart, June,” Dante said quietly, his voice thick with raw, unwavering emotion. “And unlike Graham’s contracts, this one is permanent.”
I laughed softly, tears of pure happiness pricking behind my eyelids. “You really are impossible, Dante.”
“I’m yours,” he corrected, slipping the ring onto my finger.