Epilogue Two-Remy
I clean up better than most, but Andy?
Goddamn.
She glows when I take her hand and lead her down from the penthouse suite into the glittering ballroom where half of Manhattan and all of her massive family is waiting.
Glows so bright it’s a miracle the chandeliers don’t dim in shame.
Her hair’s brushed smooth, her lips still swollen from me, her golden gown back in place like I didn’t just peel it off and fuck her breathless over a table. And she’s mine.
My wife. My everything.
We walk in late.
Fashionably late, sure.
But still late.
The room stills. Eyes turn. Flashes go off from the press pool near the back. And then I hear it.
“You’re late.”
Andres Volkov doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. His words carry across the distance like a gavel strike.
I meet his dark stare and don’t blink. “Sorry, sir. I had something to see to before we could join you.”
It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.
The only thing I’ll ever say to this man who still looks at me like he’s measuring where he’d stick the knife if he had to.
Before the silence can stretch too far, Andy squeezes my hand and steps forward.
“Dad, it’s fine.” Her voice is steady, strong. Proud.
God, I love her. Doesn’t she know by now?
Her father can blister, bark, brood all he wants—it won’t change a thing. Won’t change us.
I look down at her, at the curve of her mouth, the fire in her hazel eyes, and my chest tightens.
Anything she wants. Anything she needs. I’m here for her. I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.
And maybe Andres sees it in me, because his scowl softens—just a fraction. He lifts his glass.
A toast. A warning.
Maybe both.
But it doesn’t matter.
Andy leans into me, whispering with a smile only I get to see, “Told you we’d survive this.”
And I grin back, knowing survival isn’t the word.
We’re not surviving.
We’re conquering.
Together.
“I love you, Andy.”
“I love you back. Always and forever, Remy.”
Hell fucking yeah.
Always and forever.