The Man I Perfected for Her

I spent five years in Wyatt Hayes’s orbit.
Five years of wildness and wonder, five years of being tangled up in him.
In all that time, whatever patience and warmth he possessed, he gave to me.
Every year, on New Year’s Eve, as the clock ticked toward midnight, he would ask me the same question. “Lena, will you stay with me next year?”
Sometimes, it was over the phone, his voice a low rumble across an ocean.
Other times, he’d fly back on his jet, arriving at my apartment door, exhausted and smelling of the cold night air, just to hear me say yes in person.
His friends all had a saying: “Before Lena, Wyatt didn’t know how to love. After Lena, he didn’t need to.”
I heard the words, but I never let them sink in. It was safer that way.
On the last night of the fifth year, he came back just as he always did. He was travel-worn and carried the chill of the December air on his coat. He pulled me into his arms, the embrace familiar and firm, and pressed a tired kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Everything okay?”
I nodded, then gently eased myself out of his hold.
“Wyatt, this is it.”
“For year six,” I said, my voice even, “I wish you a happy marriage.”
I had known for a while. That flight he took wasn’t for business.
It was to get engaged, just as his family always intended.

1

In the final weeks of the year, Wyatt was overseas on company business.
I was working from home, tying up loose ends on a few entertainment news pieces before the holidays.
At ten p.m., my phone lit up with his face.
“Happy birthday, Lena,” he said, his voice warm despite the distance.
“Did the gifts arrive?”
I adjusted my glasses, my gaze falling on the small mountain of designer boxes and bags on my sofa.
They had been arriving all morning, delivered by a rotating cast of his friends. Five or six of them, each showing up separately with a package, a "Happy Birthday, Lena!" and a bit of charming small talk. They were all masters of conversation, those friends of his, ensuring the apartment was filled with cheerful noise all day.
It was Wyatt’s way of doing things. He knew I hated big parties but worried I’d be lonely. So he orchestrated a parade of brief, bright visits, giving me company without the overwhelm.
Through the screen, he looked tired. The top two buttons of his black shirt were undone, and he was slouched against a leather sofa somewhere the sun was shining. The light caught the sharp line of his jaw, highlighting that wild, untamable energy he always carried.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “On the desk in the study. I think you’ll like it.”
I walked into the study, his workspace, and saw it immediately. A deed, lying on the polished wood of his desk.
Next to it, held down by his heavy fountain pen, was a simple card.
It just said: “For Lena.”
“It’s the condo you liked,” he explained. “The one we saw that Sunday. I bought it for you. A birthday present.”
He must have seen the look on my face, because he added quickly, “It’s nothing, really. Not a big place, didn’t cost much. So don’t even think about saying no.”
I stared at the papers, a strange ache blooming in my chest. My eyes started to burn.
Wyatt always knew how to do this, how to find the cracks in my armor.
He remembered every little thing I loved, every casual comment, and he would quietly arrange the world until he could present it to me, gift-wrapped.
On the screen, he chuckled, a low, teasing sound. “Hey, don't you start crying on me, superstar. I’m too busy to fly back and fix it right now.”
He took a sip of water. “I’ll make it up to you when I’m back. I promise.”
I just nodded.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll stay on the line until you do.”
That night, a cold rain fell over New York City. I drew back the curtains, a single warm lamp glowing in the room.
Wyatt stayed on the video call for over two hours, a silent, watchful presence on my nightstand.
Just as I drifted off, I heard his voice, a whisper from the speaker, “Sweet dreams, Lena.”

2

The next morning, my editor, Sarah, dropped a new assignment in my inbox.
“Your flight to London is already booked. Lena, I need you to knock this one out of the park.”
The subject line read: "EXCLUSIVE ACCESS: The Hayes-Vancourt Engagement."
“I want the inside story,” she said.
I scrolled through the attached documents, and there it was, in black and white. Wyatt’s name.
The headline from the press brief was like a punch to the gut: “Wyatt Hayes, eldest son of the Hayes Corporation, celebrates his engagement after purchasing a four-million-dollar pink diamond. A source says a wedding is imminent.”
My brain stalled for a second. By the time it caught up, a thousand tiny needles were already prickling my heart.
Sarah was still talking, oblivious. “It’s weird, though. For a guy who lives his life in the public eye, he’s holding this party in the middle of nowhere, some country estate outside the city. Guess he’s trying to protect the fiancée. You know how it is, two powerful families merging. Paige Vancourt. He’s probably treating her like a porcelain doll.”
Clack.
My phone hit the floor, bouncing off my toes.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“You okay?” Sarah asked, impatient. “This is a huge get, Lena. The tip came from an inside source. You need to get moving.”
After we hung up, I sank to the floor.
Mechanically, I started packing a bag.
On the plane, I scrolled obsessively through six months of news about him.
It was all there, hiding in plain sight.
Six months ago: the first paparazzi shot of him with Paige Vancourt, leaving a restaurant in Mayfair.
One month ago: a society column mentioning he’d had dinner with her parents.
One week ago: the splashy headlines about the auction. A four-million-dollar pink diamond, sold to an anonymous bidder, later confirmed to be him.
Two days ago: he’d told me he had to fly out for business, and as he was getting into the car, I’d heard a woman’s clear voice in the background say, “Wyatt, it’s starting to snow in New York…”
Every piece clicked into place, perfectly filling the gaps of his recent absences.
I found a video of him from an interview after the auction.
A reporter asked, “Mr. Hayes, that’s an extraordinary price for a ring. Does it have some special significance to you?”
Wyatt shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he glanced down at the velvet box in his hand. “No special meaning. I just thought… she would like it.” He dropped the box into his overcoat pocket. “Her birthday is coming up. It’s a gift for that.”
The story was everywhere for a day, then it vanished. Scrubbed from the internet.
When I’d asked him about it, he’d simply kissed the corner of my mouth and changed the subject.
That was our rule. He set the boundaries.
And I never crossed them.
So I said nothing, swallowing the sharp, metallic taste of pain. It brought back a memory from a long time ago, a night much like this one. He had come home late, tired and vulnerable, and was kissing my cheek when I suddenly grabbed his sleeve.
“Wyatt,” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “If you have to get married someday… what happens to me? What will you do with me? Will your parents just let me be?”
The warmth in him vanished instantly. His eyes, which had been soft with desire, became clear and cold.
“Lena,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “There are some questions you shouldn’t ask.”
He had his obligations. His duties.
That night, he got drunk on the living room sofa.
I stayed in the bedroom, wrapped tightly in the duvet.
We each nursed our own dark moods, separated by a wall.
The deal was to never talk about the future, to only live in the now.
That time, I was the one who broke the rules.

3

The plane landed in London just after midnight.
I checked into the hotel Sarah had booked for me. It was a five-star place, a historic manor house converted into a luxury hotel—apparently, very close to the estate where Wyatt’s engagement party was being held.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, my boots still wet with melted snow, my fingertips numb with cold. The ice crystals on my coat slowly dissolved into dark spots on the fabric before I finally moved my stiff limbs.
The party was in six hours.
I hadn’t told Wyatt I was coming. I hadn’t even told him I knew.
For five years, there had been a clear, invisible line between us. A chasm that no amount of hard work or love on my part could ever bridge.
We both knew this day was coming. We knew dragging it out wouldn’t change the ending, but still, we stubbornly delayed it, year after year. We were both terrified to speak of it, terrified of what the final answer would be.
Which is why he hid it from me, flying to another continent to get engaged.
I sat there all night, thinking. Weighing the costs, the benefits, the impossible choices.
I imagined Wyatt had spent countless nights doing the same.
But he and I were different. I didn’t have a family empire or a legacy to consider.
All I had was this five-year-long feeling in my chest. And I was tired.
Just before dawn, I took a shower.
I put on a little makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and changed into the cleanest, most respectable outfit I had packed. Then I went downstairs.
The engagement party was being set up in the hotel’s grand ballroom. The doors were propped open, and staff were bustling in and out, arranging flowers and setting tables.
Since the event hadn’t started, I could only wait outside, in the main lobby.
I waited for a long time, the hot Americano in my hands turning cold.
I looked toward the ballroom again.
And then I saw him. Wyatt, descending the grand staircase.
Beside him was a young woman who moved with an effortless grace. She was wearing a simple, brutally elegant white sheath dress, her long hair falling down her back. She was stunning.
Wyatt stood next to her, tall and imposing, his black suit tailored to perfection, yet somehow still looking untamed.
They looked perfect together.
My eyes stung. The coffee cup trembled in my hand, and hot liquid sloshed over the side, staining the front of my coat.
I fumbled for a napkin, trying to wipe it away, only making the dark splotch worse. The smell of coffee and bitter regret filled the air.
Suddenly, a crisp, white napkin appeared in front of me. I looked up and froze.
“Miss Scott, I presume?”
The woman from the stairs was standing before me. Paige Vancourt.
“I’m Paige. Wyatt’s fiancée. I’m so glad you could make it to our engagement party.”
Her eyes swept over my face, a cool, appraising glance. She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the smile of a victor.
And in that moment, I understood. It was all her.
There was no exclusive interview. There was no inside source. A scoop like this would never have just fallen into my lap.
As much as Wyatt wanted to hide this from me, she wanted to rub my face in it.
“I’m aware of your… relationship with Wyatt,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “But I imagine a woman like you wouldn't want to continue so indecently attached to a married man, would she?”
She gestured vaguely at the bustling ballroom. “As you can see, this is a large, private event. To avoid any unpleasantness, I think it would be best if you left.” Her smile tightened. “My fiancé and I will be declining all interviews. We have no desire to see our celebration written about in the papers.”
My hands were clenched into fists in my pockets, my nails digging into my palms so hard I couldn’t feel the sting.
“Does Wyatt know you invited me here?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She laughed, a light, airy sound that was sharper than a shard of glass. “Well, that’s up to you, isn't it? Whether you want him to know or not.”
My gaze dropped to her hand, where the pink diamond sat, flashing under the chandelier light. It was magnificent, a perfect, impossible star. Just like their lives.
“You seem interested in my ring,” she purred.
“Wyatt gave it to me for my birthday. An early present.”
She tilted her head. “He’s so very thoughtful, isn’t he? So good at knowing what a girl wants. I suppose I have you to thank for that, Miss Scott.”

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