Ch. I Proposed To Him, The Comments Told Me His Heart Belonged To Her 6 I Proposed To Him, The Comments Told Me His Heart Belonged To Her 6

Chapter 6 

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ine later that Blaire had started her own beauty account. 

I wasn’t surprised. 

Good for her. 

I didn’t own the industry. 

A month later, Tessa sent me a proposal deck. 

[Look familiar?] 

Three pages in and my blood was already boiling. 

Of course it looked familiar. 

It was the first version of my personal beauty brand proposal, the one I’d built two years ago. I’d shelved it when I pivoted, but my team and I had bled over every detail inside it, from the color system to the product 

concepts. 

I’d left old files at the Whitmore estate when I moved out. 

I hadn’t expected Blaire to help herself. 

[What do you want to do?] 

I didn’t hesitate. 

[Put out an IP ownership statement. Pull every piece of evidence we have.] 

[Honestly? I thought you’d let it slide.] 

I leaned back in my chair. 

[The room, the dresses, the jewelry? Fine. The Whitmores gave me those. She can have them.] 

[But this is different.] 

I’d built it from nothing. 

Every idea in that deck was mine. 

Nobody gets to take that. 

Things moved fast after the statement went live. 

Blaire stayed quiet. Dad called the next day. 

“Sienna, can we keep this in the family?” 

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I clo 

Why 

ty eyes. Of course 

“Blaire’s new to all this. She doesn’t know how things work yet. She probably just saw your old files sitting around and figured nobody was using them…” 

“Dad.” He stopped. 

“If this were a Whitmore family thing and you asked me to hand it over, I wouldn’t say a word.” 

He went quiet. 

“But this is mine.” 

I kept my voice steady, but I wasn’t backing down. 

“I spent three months on that proposal. My team worked on it too. Why should I give up what’s tnine because she didn’t know better?” 

Dad was quiet for a long time. 

All he said was, “I understand.” 

After that, it went more smoothly than I expected. 

Our evidence was airtight: original files, emails, meeting/records, all timestamped. The brand working with Blaire pulled the project within a week. She had no choice but to apologize publicly. 

I didn’t respond. 

This was business. It was never personal. 

A few days later, Tessa mentioned that one key piece of evidence, footage from an industry event two years ago, had come from Grant. He’d had someone deliver it. 

“How did he have that?” 

“Prescott Group sponsored the event.” 

“Hm.” 

“You’re not going to thank him?” 

I thought about it. Then texted him. 

[Got the files. Thanks.] 

His reply was instant. Again. 

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Th 

The typing bubble blinked at the top of the screerì. For a long time. 

When it finally came through, it was two words. 

[It’s nothing.] 

I laughed out loud. 

Grant Prescott, speechless and trying too hard. I never thought I’d see the day. 

The day of my gallery show, I was running on fumes. Five minutes before going onstage, I was still crouched 

backstage fixing my lipstick. 

A staff member appeared at my side. 

“Miss Whitmore, there’s a Mr. Prescott waiting outside.’ 

My hand stilled. 

“He doesn’t have an invitation, so he stayed outside. He just wanted to know if you could spare ten minutes 

after it’s over.” 

I looked at my reflection. Something about this moment made the world tilt sideways. 

Grant had never knocked before entering my life. 

He knew the code to the Whitmore estate, the location of my studio, my sleep schedule, which pocket of my 

bag held my favorite lipstick. 

He’d never once thought he needed permission. 

And now he was standing outside, waiting for me to decide if I’d let him in. 

I capped my lipstick. 

“Let him wait.” 

The staff member asked, “Should I bring him in after ten minutes?” 

“No.” 

I stood and smoothed my dress. 

“He can see me when the whole thing’s over.” 

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Cha 

The gallery show didn’t wrap until after ten. 

Grant was still there. 

No flowers. No ridiculously expensive, useless gift. Just a box. 

I eyed it. 

“What is it this time?” 

He held it out. I opened it. The fountain pen, the one from his birthday. 

“Didn’t you throw this away?” 

“I kept it.” 

“Why’d you keep something you threw away?” 

A muscle jumped in his jaw. 

I was enjoying myself. 

He reached beneath the box and pulled out a sheet of paper, slightly yellowed at the edges: an application form from a young creators’ competition I’d entered at seventeen. 

Under “career plans,” in my messiest, most confident handwriting: 

I’m going to build the best beauty brand in the world someday. 

I’d forgotten I’d ever written that. 

“Why do you have this?” 

“You made me turn it in for you.” 

I stared at that line in my own handwriting, and something tangled and warm knotted itself in my chest. 

He’d always known what I wanted. Even when I’d forgotten. 

After a long silence, he said it. 

“Sienna, I’m sorry.” 

I went still. 

Those three words from Grant were rarer than an acceptance letter from Westvale. 

He didn’t say he did it because he loved me too much. He didn’t claim he just didn’t know how to show it.