The call came at 2:17 AM.
Sloane was asleep in her apartment above the bakery, dreaming of flour and butter and Cole's hands on her waist. The dream shifted when her phone vibrated against the nightstand – once, twice, three times.
She grabbed it blindly. "Hello?"
"Is this Sloane Bennett?"
A woman's voice. Professional. Urgent.
"This is Sloane. Who's this?"
"My name is Rachel. I'm Frankie Thorne's night nurse. I'm calling because Ms. Thorne has taken a turn. She's asking for you. And for Cole."
Sloane sat up straight, her heart slamming against her ribs. "What kind of turn? Is she—"
"She's stable now, but her oxygen levels dropped. We've increased her meds. She's resting. But she was very insistent that you both come." A pause. "She said, and I quote, 'Tell that stubborn nephew of mine if he doesn't get here before sunrise, I'll haunt his penthouse.'"
Sloane almost laughed. Almost. "I'll call him. We'll be there as soon as we can."
She hung up and immediately dialed Cole.
He answered on the first ring. "Sloane?"
"Frankie's sick. The nurse called. We need to go to the islands. Now."
"I'll send the seaplane."
"I'll be ready in five minutes."
She hung up and threw on jeans, a sweater, boots. No makeup. No time. She grabbed her phone, her keys, and the framed photo of Nana from the nightstand – for luck, for strength, for something to hold onto.
Jade was already awake, standing in the doorway of the apartment with a blanket around her shoulders.
"Go," Jade said. "I've got the bakery. Take care of him."
"How did you know—"
"Because you're wearing mismatched socks and you haven't brushed your hair. That's your 'someone I love is in trouble' look." Jade hugged her hard. "Text me when you know more."
Sloane ran downstairs and out the door.
The seaplane was waiting at Lake Union. Cole was already on board, his face gray in the pre-dawn light. He wore a wrinkled button-down and yesterday's trousers. His eyes were red. His hands were shaking.
He didn't say hello. He just grabbed Sloane's hand and held on like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
"She can't die," he said as the plane lifted off the water. "Not yet. I'm not ready."
Sloane squeezed his fingers. "She's not going to die tonight. The nurse said she's stable."
"Nurses lie."
"Frankie's too stubborn to die before she sees us engaged." Sloane lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles. "She's waiting for us. We just have to get there."
Cole stared out the window at the dark water below. The first hints of pink were bleeding into the sky.
"I should have been there," he said. "I should have stayed on the island after the gala. But I wanted to be near you, so I came back to Seattle. And now she's—"
"Stop." Sloane turned his face toward hers. "You can't do that. You can't blame yourself for things you couldn't control. Frankie has cancer. Cancer doesn't care where you sleep at night."
"I could have been there when she woke up."
"And you'll be there when she wakes up this morning. Because we're going." She cupped his jaw. "Cole. Look at me."
He looked at her.
"She's going to be okay tonight. And tomorrow, and the day after. We have six months, remember? You promised her six months."
"I promised her forever."
The words hung in the air.
Sloane's chest ached. "Then give her forever. Starting now."
---
The seaplane landed on the water near Frankie's island at 4:30 AM. A car was waiting. Cole drove this time – too fast, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his jaw set.
Sloane didn't tell him to slow down.
She understood.
They reached the white house with the blue shutters as the sun was rising. The sky was on fire – pink and orange and gold – but neither of them noticed.
The front door was unlocked. The night nurse met them in the hallway, her face tired but calm.
"She's awake," Rachel said. "She's asking for tea. And for Cole to stop looking like someone died, because she's not dead yet."
Cole pushed past her and walked into Frankie's bedroom.
Sloane followed.
Frankie was propped up on pillows, her silver-white hair loose around her shoulders, her skin almost the same color as the sheets. But her eyes – those whiskey-colored eyes – were bright. And she was smiling.
"About time," Frankie said. Her voice was weaker than before, but her spirit was intact. "I've been up since three, and the tea is cold."
Cole knelt beside the bed. He took Frankie's hand and pressed it to his forehead. His shoulders shook.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."
Frankie used her free hand to smack the back of his head – gently, but firmly. "Stop that. You're here now. That's what matters."
"But if you had—"
"I didn't." Frankie's voice softened. "I'm not gone yet, Cole. I had a bad night. I'll have more bad nights. That's what dying is. But I'm not leaving you today. Or tomorrow. Or next week." She looked up at Sloane, who was standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. "Come here, baker girl."
Sloane walked to the other side of the bed and took Frankie's other hand.
"You're crying," Frankie said.
"I'm scared," Sloane admitted.
"Good. Fear means you care." Frankie looked between them – the broken billionaire on her left, the weeping baker on her right. "I've been waiting for this, you know. For both of you."
"For what?" Cole asked.
"For you to stop pretending." Frankie squeezed their hands. "I've known about the contract since the beginning. Cole, did you really think I wouldn't find out? I have sources."
Cole went pale. "Frankie—"
"Let me finish." Frankie's eyes were fierce. "I don't care about the contract. I care about what's real. And what's real is that you two are falling in love, and you're both too scared to admit it."
Sloane opened her mouth. Closed it.
Frankie laughed – a weak, rattling sound. "You can't fool a dying woman, Sloane. I see the way you look at him. Like he's a sunrise you didn't expect. And Cole – I see the way you look at her. Like she's the first good thing that's ever happened to you."
Cole said nothing. His hand tightened on Frankie's.
"The contract ends in six months," Frankie continued. "But love doesn't end. Love stays. Love shows up at 4 AM on a seaplane because someone called. Love burns pancakes and wears pink aprons and holds hands in hospital rooms." She looked at Sloane. "Are you going to stay?"
Sloane didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Frankie looked at Cole. "Are you going to let her?"
Cole's eyes were wet. "I don't know how."
"Then learn." Frankie released their hands and sank back into her pillows. "Now make me tea. Both of you. And Sloane – there's a recipe in the kitchen drawer. My mother's shortbread. Cole knows where."
"Frankie, you shouldn't be eating shortbread," Cole said.
"I'm dying. I'll eat what I want."
---
They made tea together in Frankie's kitchen.
Sloane measured the loose leaves into the pot – Earl Grey, Frankie's favorite – while Cole boiled water and tried not to drop the kettle.
"You're shaking," Sloane said.
"I almost lost her."
"You didn't."
"I could have."
"But you didn't." She walked over to him and took the kettle from his hands. "Sit down."
"I don't want to sit."
"Cole. Sit."
He sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Sloane finished the tea – steeping it for exactly three minutes, the way Nana had taught her – and poured two cups. She set one in front of him and sat beside him.
He didn't drink. He just stared at the steam rising from the cup.
"She knew about the contract," he said. "The whole time."
"She's Frankie. Of course she knew."
"I thought I was protecting her. By pretending. By giving her peace." He laughed bitterly. "Instead, she was protecting me. From myself."
Sloane put her hand on his back. Her palm rested between his shoulder blades, over the scars she'd traced that morning.
"That's what family does," she said. "They protect you even when you don't want to be protected."
"You're not family."
"I could be."
He turned to look at her. "What did you say?"
Sloane's heart pounded. "I said I could be. If you let me."
Cole stared at her for a long moment. Then he pulled her off the chair and onto his lap. His arms wrapped around her. His face buried in her neck.
"I don't deserve you," he said into her skin.
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
"It's not." She held him as tight as she could. "You deserve love, Cole. You deserve someone who shows up. Someone who stays. Someone who sees your scars and doesn't run."
"And you're that someone?"
"I'm trying to be."
He pulled back and looked at her. His eyes were red, but there was something new in them. Something that looked like hope.
"I love you," he said.
The words fell into the quiet kitchen like stones into still water.
Sloane's breath stopped. "What?"
"I love you." He said it again, stronger this time. "I didn't think I could. I told myself it was just the contract. Just six months. Just pretending. But it's not. It's never been pretending. Not for me."
Sloane's eyes filled with tears. "Cole—"
"You don't have to say it back. I know it's too soon. I know I'm a mess. I know I have scars and nightmares and a company that's going to try to tear us apart." He cupped her face. "But I love you, Sloane Bennett. And I'm done pretending I don't."
She kissed him.
Not carefully. Not gently. She kissed him like she was drowning and he was air. Her hands fisted in his shirt. His arms crushed her against his chest. The tea grew cold on the table.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Sloane pressed her forehead to his.
"I love you too," she whispered. "I think I've loved you since the moment you walked into my bakery at 5 AM and asked for something real."
"I asked for a contract."
"You asked for a second chance. Same thing."
Cole laughed – a real laugh, rusty and surprised, like he hadn't used it in years.
Frankie's voice drifted from the bedroom: "Did you two make that tea, or are you just going to make out in my kitchen all morning?"
They looked at each other and smiled.
"We're coming, Frankie," Sloane called.
Cole stood up, still holding her. He didn't put her down. He carried her to the counter, set her on it, and kissed her one more time.
"I love you," he said again, like he was testing how it felt.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
He smiled – a real smile, crooked and warm. "I love you, Sloane. Now let's go give my aunt her tea before she haunts us both."
---
They brought Frankie her tea and her shortbread. She ate three pieces, declared them "almost as good as my mother's", and made Cole promise to bring Sloane back every weekend.
"Every weekend," Cole agreed.
"And you're going to propose for real. Not with a contract. With a ring."
"Frankie—"
"I'm dying, Cole. I want to see a diamond."
Sloane laughed. Cole groaned. But his hand found hers under the blanket, and his fingers intertwined with hers, and he didn't let go.
Later, when Frankie fell asleep, they sat on the porch swing and watched the sun climb higher over the water.
"Six months," Sloane said.
"Forget six months." Cole pulled her closer. "I'm keeping you forever."
"That's not what the contract says."
"To hell with the contract."
Sloane leaned her head on his shoulder. The waves crashed below. The roses climbed the trellis. And for the first time in fourteen months, she wasn't afraid of the future.
She was already home.