EPILOGUE
KARRIE
Six Months Later
The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Summit's penthouse, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. I lay in bed—our bed now, though I still sometimes caught myself thinking of it as his—and listened to the sounds of the apartment waking up.
Marlow's voice carried down the hallway, bright and demanding. "Dada! Dada, up!"
I smiled against the pillow. Six months ago, I never would have imagined this.
My two-year-old calling another man "Dada.
" But Summit had earned it in ways Bart never could have.
He was the one who got up at 6 AM with Marlow when she had nightmares.
He was the one who taught her to say "please" and "thank you.
" He was the one who held her while she cried for her father—a grief that had faded as she realized her father wasn't coming back, that he'd chosen his own selfishness over her.
Summit had been there through all of it.
Beside me, he was already stirring, reaching for me even as he was waking. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer, his lips brushing against my shoulder.
"Good morning, baby" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
"Good morning." I turned to face him, and he was already smiling—that slow, satisfied smile that still made my heart skip. Six months of waking up to this man, and I still wasn't used to it. Still couldn't quite believe it was real.
"Marlow's awake," I said.
"I heard." He kissed my forehead. "Give me five minutes."
He rolled out of bed, pulling on the sweatpants he'd discarded last night, and I watched him go.
The man was obscenely attractive—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of confidence that came from always being the smartest person in the room.
But it was more than that. It was the way he moved through the world with purpose.
The way he'd systematically dismantled Bart's career without hesitation.
The way he looked at me like I was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.
The way he loved me.
I heard him scoop Marlow up in the hallway, her delighted squeals echoing through the penthouse. Then Danika's babbling—my one-year-old was awake now too, demanding her own share of attention.
I stretched in bed, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles from last night.
We'd made love for hours—slow, deep, nothing like the frantic revenge sex of those first weeks.
This was different. This was the kind of intimacy that came from genuine connection, from knowing someone completely and being known in return.
Summit had asked me once if I missed it—the adrenaline of the revenge, the satisfaction of watching Bart's life crumble. I'd told him the truth: I didn't miss it. I'd gotten what I needed from it. Closure. Justice. The knowledge that I'd been right to protect myself.
But this—this was better.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, Summit had Marlow in her high chair with a bowl of fruit, and Danika was in her bouncer, babbling at the mobile above her head. He was making coffee with the kind of focus he brought to everything, and I couldn't help but smile.
"You're staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm admiring," I corrected, moving to kiss the back of his neck. "There's a difference."
He turned, pulling me into his arms, and kissed me properly—deep and thorough, the kind of kiss that made me forget we had two toddlers in the room.
"Ew!" Marlow announced, giggling. "Dada kiss Mama!"
"That's right," Summit said, not breaking eye contact with me. "Your mama is mine, and I'm going to kiss her whenever I want."
The possessiveness should have bothered me. Six months ago, I would have bristled at it. But from Summit, it felt different. It wasn't about control. It was about choice. He chose me. Every single day, he chose me.
"Coffee?" he asked, finally releasing me.
"Please."
We fell into the easy rhythm of morning—him handling the kids while I showered, me taking over breakfast while he got ready for work. It was domestic and ordinary and absolutely perfect.
That afternoon, while the kids napped, Summit pulled me into his home office and locked the door.
"What are you doing?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.
"Something I've been thinking about all morning," he said, backing me toward the leather sofa. "You, in that dress, looking at me like you want me to—"
"Summit, the kids—"
"Are asleep. We have forty-five minutes." He was already pulling my dress up, his hands warm on my thighs. "That's more than enough time."
He kissed me, and I melted into it. This was what I'd been missing my entire marriage to Bart—this kind of desire. This kind of attention. This man who looked at me like I was the most fascinating creature he'd ever encountered.
"I want you," he murmured against my neck, "to remember that you're mine. That this—" he slid his fingers inside me, and I gasped, "—is mine. That every time you come, it's because of me."
"Summit—"
"Say it," he commanded, his fingers moving with deliberate precision. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," I breathed. "I belong to you."
"Damn right you do." He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his cock, pushing inside me in one smooth stroke. "And I belong to you. Every part of me. Every fucking part."
He moved with purpose, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur. His hand found my breast, squeezing gently, and I arched into him.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "So fucking beautiful when you're about to come for me."
"I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel it." He shifted his angle, and the pressure built, built, built until I was right on the edge. "Come for me, Karrie. Let me feel it."
I came hard, my body clenching around him, and he followed seconds later, burying himself deep inside me with a groan.
We lay tangled together on the sofa, his weight on top of me, his face buried in my neck.
"I love you," he said, the words muffled against my skin.
"I love you too," I replied, running my fingers through his hair.
This was what real love felt like. Not the desperate, frantic passion of those first weeks. Not the cold calculation of revenge. This was partnership. This was choosing someone, every single day, and having them choose you back.
Later that week, I ran into an old acquaintance at the grocery store.
"Karrie! Oh my God, it's been forever!" She air-kissed my cheek, her eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that came from knowing my story. Everyone knew my story. "How are you? I saw that video—I mean, everyone saw that video. That was absolutely insane."
"I'm good," I said simply. "Really good, actually."
"And you're with Summit Wilder now? That's so—" She paused, searching for the word. "Romantic? I mean, he was Bart's boss, and now you're together, and—"
"It's not a fairy tale," I interrupted gently. "It's just... real. We're happy."
She nodded, but I could see the disappointment in her eyes. She'd wanted the story to be more dramatic, more salacious. She'd wanted me to be bitter or triumphant in a way that made for good gossip.
But I wasn't bitter. And my triumph wasn't something I needed to perform for anyone.
That night, I googled Bart for the first time in months.
I shouldn't have. I knew I shouldn't have. But I did.
He was living in a studio apartment in a part of the city I'd never been to. His LinkedIn profile was gone. His social media accounts had been deleted or made private. There were no recent news articles about him, no mentions of new jobs or opportunities.
He'd simply... disappeared.
Jennifer had done the same. She'd moved back to her hometown, according to a mutual acquaintance, and was working at a coffee shop. The woman who'd believed she was going to climb the corporate ladder on the back of an affair was now making minimum wage and living with her parents.
I felt nothing.
Not satisfaction. Not anger. Not even vindication.
Just... nothing.
Because they didn't matter anymore. They were footnotes in my story, not the main plot. My life had moved on, had evolved into something so much better than revenge could ever be.
I closed the browser and went to find Summit.
He was in the living room, reading a manuscript for work, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up when I entered, and his expression softened.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Perfect," I said, settling onto the couch beside him. "Everything is perfect."
He set the manuscript aside and pulled me against his chest, his arm around my shoulders. We sat like that in comfortable silence, listening to the city sounds outside the windows.
Six months ago, I was a betrayed wife planning revenge.
Now I was a woman who'd reclaimed her power, secured her children's future, and found genuine love with a man who saw her—really saw her—and chose her anyway.
The revenge had been satisfying. The victory had been sweet.
But this—this quiet contentment, this deep partnership, this real and lasting happiness—this was the true triumph.
I'd come out of the fire not just intact, but transformed. Stronger. Smarter. More myself than I'd ever been.
And I was just getting started.