By: Tracy Wolff

“So am I.”

“You don’t have anything—”

“I do,” she told him, pressing kisses along his strong and stubbled jawline. “You aren’t the only one who made mistakes. I messed up six years ago, badly, and I don’t blame you for thinking I messed up again.”

“You didn’t, though. I know that even if we never find the thief—”

“Oh, we’ll find him,” she declared adamantly. “No way is some jerk getting away with stealing from the man I love.”

Marc laughed even as he hugged her closer. “You sound so fierce.”

“I feel fierce,” she said, tugging him down the hall toward her bedroom.

“Do you?” He crooked that brow that always made her crazy.

“I do. And as soon as it’s morning, we’re going back to Bijoux and we’re going to start figuring who did this to you. To us. Together.”

“Together.” He bent, pressed his own kisses against her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her eyes. “I like the sound of that.”

“So do I.” She held him tight. “I love you, Marc. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too. I always have and I always will.”

His words reached inside, thawing out the last of the cold that had lingered there since that long-ago night in Manhattan. And as she pulled him into her room—into her bed—she couldn’t help thinking that it had all been worth it. To get here, to this moment, she’d trade a million diamonds, go through whatever pain it took.

Because Marc was worth it. And so was the life they would build together.