Two months later.
The ELEGANCE magazine sits on Killian’s kitchen counter—my kitchen counter now, I suppose, since I officially sold my house earlier this month. The glossy cover stares back at me, my own face looking more elegant and sophisticated than I ever thought possible. ‘Beauty and Brains: The Model Breaking All the Rules.’
No seductive lingerie on display.
No suggestive pose.
Just me in a perfectly tailored cream suit, staring directly into the camera with an unwavering elegance (pun intended). That particular edition sold more copies than any other ever published, which is why they offered me a regular feature that utilises my psychology doctorate—“Mind & Style,” a monthly column exploring the cognitive and emotional connections between identity, appearance, and confidence.
The column examines everything from the psychological impact of power dressing to the neuroscience behind retail therapy, giving readers substance beneath the glossy surface. My first piece on the psychology of transformative dressing—how changing our outward appearance can genuinely alter our internal mindset—apparently resonated with women who’d been told for years that caring about fashion was somehow shallow or frivolous.
Turns out having a legitimately educated voice explaining why self-presentation matters on a psychological level makes people feel less guilty about splurging on that designer bag they’ve been eyeing. Who knew?
For next month’s issue, I’m crafting a thoughtful exploration examining how women’s sexual autonomy and desire can be acknowledged as natural aspects of human experience rather than subjects of societal judgment or shame. The piece aims to deconstruct lingering puritanical attitudes that disproportionately stigmatise women’s sexual expression while advocating for a more balanced discourse that recognises sexual wellness as an integral component of overall wellbeing, regardless of gender. I’ve found my niche. The balance between fashion, femininity and doing something meaningful—and I am in my element.
‘Still staring at it?’ Killian’s arms slide around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. ‘It’s been a week. I think the words have probably remained the same.’
‘Shut up.’ I lean back into his solid, muscular warmth. ‘I’m allowed to take a few minutes to be proud.’
‘You are.’ He presses his lips to the spot just below my ear. ‘I’m proud of you too.’
The Killian Beckett who now shares his coffee, his bed, and his life with me is almost unrecognisable from the rigid, controlled man I first met. He still does perimeter checks before bed. Still keeps his gun within reach. Still wakes occasionally in the night, reaching for me as if to confirm I haven’t been taken from him again. But the walls that once surrounded him have crumbled, replaced by a quiet certainty that makes my heart ache in the best possible way.
‘Did you see the email that came in from Mandy this morning?’ I ask, nodding toward my laptop. ‘She hasn’t given up on the idea of getting both of us on the cover of ELEGANCE yet.’
‘Hmm.’ His arms tighten slightly. ‘Still looking to wear those white dresses you were so keen on last year?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That’s the only way you’ll get me on the cover of that magazine. So you just let me know when you’re ready.’ His dark eyes gleam. He’s made no secret of the fact he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, but unlike my deranged stepbrother, he’s leaving the details of if and when to me. Must be hard for a control freak like him, but still he manages to rein it, even though I’m sure it’s killing him inside.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Am I ever not serious?’
True.
Looks like Mandy will be getting her exposure before the year is out. Marriage always seemed like a risk that wasn’t worth taking—not after witnessing my parents’ collapse. Yet lately, I find myself yearning to take the vows I once doubted, increasingly certain this love is worth the leap.
Who knew my moody, broody billionaire bodyguard would turn out to be the man of my dreams? And I plan on making those dreams—both his and mine–a reality very soon.
My heart stutters. ‘Are you asking me to marry you while I’m wearing your t-shirt and bed hair?’
His lips quirk into that smile that still makes my stomach flip. ‘Absolutely not. When I propose, you’ll know it.’ He steps closer, tugging me against him. ‘I’m just gathering intelligence.’
‘Is that what the security experts call it?’ I wind my arms around his neck.
‘Strategic reconnaissance,’ he confirms, his eyes darkening as his hands slip under my—his—t-shirt.
As his lips find mine, I can’t help but marvel at how we got here. From reluctant protector and unwilling protectee to this—a love that survived a stalker, family secrets, and enough emotional baggage to fill the cargo hold of a 747. We haven’t been to therapy, but we talk openly about all that happened to us, at the light house and long before.
The magazine on the counter represents more than just a career milestone. It’s tangible proof that life continues, evolves, improves, even after trauma. That sometimes the worst moments lead to the best ones.
Killian finally drags his lips from mine. ‘Let’s go back to bed.’ The domesticity of these moments still catches me off guard sometimes. The notorious Killian Beckett, wearing low-slung grey sweatpants and nothing else, making me coffee in our kitchen on a Sunday morning.
Jasper slinks in and circles Killian’s ankles. ‘Furry fucking cockblock,’ he tuts affectionately. These days he doesn’t even pretend to dislike him. He scoops him up against his broad bare chest and my ovaries explode.
‘Have you decided what to do about your father’s invitation?’ he asks, scratching Jasper’s head before placing him down on the floor again.
The question brings a familiar knot of tension. My father and Tessa have been trying to rebuild their lives since Christmas. They call more regularly, invite me to dinner, make tentative efforts to reconnect. It’s complicated by the fact that Tessa’s son—my stepbrother—now resides in a high-security psychiatric facility outside Dublin. Killian wanted to torture him. Confining a mind like Sebastian’s is crueller than any physical pain, or any prison sentence could have been. The worst punishment for a man of his intelligence is to be trapped not just physically, but intellectually. Killing him would have been a mercy.
‘Not yet.’ I take a sip of coffee, buying time. ‘Part of me wants to go, but…’
‘But you’re not ready.’
‘Is that terrible?’
Killian shakes his head. ‘I’m sure they understand.’
Sebastian doesn’t understand, according to the doctors. The official diagnosis was Erotomania coupled with Narcissistic Personality Disorder—a particularly dangerous combination. The man who stalked me for years, who left black lilies as tokens of his twisted affection, who drugged his own mother and nearly killed my father, now spends his days in a supervised ward, writing me letters I’ve asked not to receive.
‘Where did you go?’ Killian asks softly, tapping my forehead.
‘Nowhere important.’ I force myself back to the present. ‘Now, are we going back to bed, or are you going to take me on the island, where anyone could walk in?’
‘Which would you prefer?’
‘What do you think? You’re the one who calls me reckless.’
He hoists me up on to the counter and I squeal as my ass lands on the cold composite.
Everything else is forgotten. This is what healing really looks like—for both of us. Not the absence of scars, but the presence of joy despite them.
