Chapter Sixty-Two
Melissa
I sat on the edge of the bed, my pregnant belly making the simple act of sitting feel like a negotiation with gravity.
The lamp cast a warm light across the cream-colored envelope, illuminating my name written in Travis’ distinctive handwriting, bold strokes, slightly slanted to the right, the kind of penmanship that belonged to a man who learned to write with purpose rather than elegance.
Melissa.
Just my name. Nothing else. No “My Love” or any of the endearments he used when he was alive. Just my name, stark and final, like he knew that by the time I read this, all the other titles would have fallen away.
The envelope was heavier than it should have been, not physically, but in the way that objects become weighted with meaning, with the knowledge of what they contain.
The paper felt fragile beneath my fingertips, not old, but delicate in the way that important things often are.
I traced the letters of my name, following the path Travis’ pen had taken, trying to imagine him sitting somewhere quiet, knowing these would be his last words to me, trying to distill everything he felt into sentences that would have to carry the weight of forever.
What do you say when you know there’s a chance you won’t come back?
The question hung in the air, unanswered and unanswerable.
I’d asked myself that same question in the months since his death, wondering what I would have said if I had known that morning would be our last. If I had known that his kiss goodbye would be the final one, that his “I love you” would be the last time I heard him say those words.
My hands shook as I slid my finger under the envelope’s seal.
The adhesive gave way with a soft tearing sound that felt too loud in my quiet bedroom, too final, like I was breaking something that could never be repaired.
The flap lifted, revealing a single sheet of paper folded in thirds, the same cream color as the envelope, the same weight and texture.
I pulled it out slowly, my breath catching in my throat.
The paper unfolded in my hands, as Travis’ handwriting filled the page, not the careful, measured script of the envelope, but something loose, more urgent, like he wrote this in a rush or under emotional duress.
The lines weren’t perfectly straight. Some words were darker than others, pressed harder into the paper.
It looked like what it was: a man trying to say everything that mattered before time ran out.
Princess,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. And I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry that I couldn’t keep my promise to grow old with you, to watch our child grow up, to be there for all the moments that mattered. I’m sorry that you’re alone now, carrying grief that shouldn’t be yours to carry.
But I need you to know something, and I need you to really hear it: you were the best thing that ever happened to me.
Not the club, not the brotherhood, not the reputation or the respect, or any of the things I thought mattered before I met you.
Just you. The way you laughed at my terrible jokes.
The way you looked at me like I was worth something more than the violence I was good at.
The way you made me believe I could be a better man than the one I was raised to be.
You gave me purpose. You gave me a reason to want to live instead of just existing. You gave me a life worth protecting, even if I couldn’t protect it in the end.
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I blinked them back, needing to see, needing to read every word he left me. My hand moved to my belly instinctively, feeling the weight of the child I carried. His child.
I know you’re going to blame yourself. That’s who you are.
You take responsibility for things that aren’t your fault, carry guilt that belongs to other people.
But listen to me, Mellie... my death is not on you.
Whatever happened, whatever choices led to this moment, they were mine.
I made them, knowing the risks. I made them because protecting you and our unborn kid mattered more than protecting myself.
And I’d make them again. Every single one.
But here’s the thing I need you to understand, the thing I need you to really hear. You are allowed to move on. You are allowed to love again. You are allowed to build a life that doesn’t include my ghost haunting every corner of it.
The irony of that word—ghost—hit me like a punch to the sternum.
He always hated that nickname, said it made him sound like he was already dead, like he was something insubstantial that could disappear at any moment.
And now here he was, literally a ghost, writing to me from beyond the grave about haunting.
I know who you’ll turn to. I’ve always known. Rowen’s been in love with you since the day he met you, even if he’s too stubborn or too loyal to admit it. And you... baby, you need to let him. I can’t explain it, but I just know he’s the one you need. Not me.
My breath caught. My tears spilled over now, hot tracks down my cheeks that I didn’t bother to wipe away. He knew. All this time, he knew and never said anything, never warned me.
I’m not angry about it. I’m not hurt. Because here’s what I figured out, Mellie. Love isn’t a finite resource. Him loving you; you learning to love him, doesn’t mean you loved me less. It just means you have a big enough heart to hold more than one person, more than one kind of love.
And Rowen... he’s a good man. Better than he thinks he is.
He’ll protect you the way I couldn’t. He’ll love you the way you deserve to be loved.
He’ll be there for our child, teach them things I’ll never get the chance to teach.
He’ll give you the life I wanted to give you but ran out of time to build.
So here’s what I’m asking you, baby. Don’t let guilt keep you from being happy.
Don’t let loyalty to my memory turn into a prison that keeps you from living.
I’m gone, but you’re still here. You’re still breathing, still fighting, still capable of joy and love and all the things that make life worth surviving.
Let yourself have that. Let yourself have him.
The paper shook in my hands. I couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t process what I was reading. Travis was giving me permission... no, more than permission. He was practically pushing me toward Rowen, telling me it was okay, telling me he understood.
But understanding didn’t make it hurt less. Permission didn’t erase the guilt that had been eating at me since the moment I realized I loved Rowen more than I loved Travis. That terrible, shameful truth that I was carrying like a stone in my chest.
I know you’re probably crying right now.
I know you’re probably angry at me for writing this, for making it sound so simple when nothing about this is simple.
But I need you to know that I died loving you.
That my last thoughts were of you and our baby.
That if I could have stayed, if I could have fought harder, survived longer, I would have.
But I couldn’t. And that’s not your fault. It’s not Rowen’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except the bastard who pulled the trigger.
So live, Mellie. Live big and loud, and messy. Let Rowen love you the way you deserve to be loved, let him love you for the both of us and, baby, let him give you the life I can’t. Build a life that’s yours, not mine, not some shadow of what we had.
And when you think of me, because I know you will, because that’s who you are, don’t think of me as the man who died. Think of me as the man who loved you enough to let you go. The man who wanted your happiness more than he wanted your grief.
You were my everything, baby. My reason for fighting, my reason for surviving as long as I did. And if loving you means setting you free to love someone else, then that’s what I’m doing.
Be happy, baby.
That’s all I ever wanted for you.
Travis.
The letter fell from my hands, drifting to the floor like a leaf falling from a tree.
I sat there, frozen, tears streaming down my face in a torrent I couldn’t control.
My chest heaved with sobs that felt like they were tearing me apart from the inside, like grief and relief and guilt were all fighting for dominance in the space where my heart used to be.
He knew. He gave me permission to move forward. Had practically written me a roadmap for how to survive his death without drowning in guilt. But permission didn’t make it easier. Understanding didn’t erase the pain.
I thought about Travis in those final days, sitting somewhere quiet with this paper and pen, knowing he was running out of time, trying to find the right words to set me free.
I thought about the courage it must have taken to write this, to acknowledge that the woman he loved could possibly love someone else, to give his blessing to a future he wouldn’t be part of.
And then I thought about Rowen, sitting downstairs in the living room, waiting to see if I would come back to him or walk away forever.
Rowen, who’d spent six months building something just so he could walk away from it.
Rowen, who’d given up everything because being the head of the IRA without me felt like wearing a crown he didn’t want.
Edward VIII lived in exile. But he wasn’t alone.
The words I said to Rowen echoed in my mind, taking on new meaning in light of Travis’ letter.
Edward had given up the throne for love.
Had chosen exile over power. Had spent the rest of his life with the woman he sacrificed everything for.
And Travis was telling me to do the same thing.
To choose love over loyalty to his memory, to choose life over grief, to choose Rowen over the ghost of what we had.
My hand moved to my belly, feeling the weight of our child growing inside me. A tangible reminder that life moved forward whether we were ready or not, that the future existed whether we chose to participate in it or not.
I picked up the letter again, reading through the words one more time, letting them sink in deeper. Travis’ handwriting blurred through my tears, but I could still make out the essential truth he was trying to convey... I’m allowed to be happy. I’m allowed to love again. I’m allowed to live.
The permission felt like absolution and a burden all at once.
Because now I couldn’t hide behind guilt.
Couldn’t use loyalty to Travis’ memory as an excuse to keep Rowen at arm’s length.
Couldn’t pretend that my feelings for Rowen were a betrayal when Travis himself had seen them, understood them, and given his blessing.
I folded the letter carefully, my fingers trembling as I creased the paper along the same lines Travis had folded it. The act felt sacred somehow, like I was preserving something precious and fragile. I slid it back into the envelope, sealing away his last words, his final gift to me.
The room was quiet except for the sound of my breathing, ragged and uneven, slowly returning to normal.
The lamp cast long shadows across the walls, and somewhere downstairs, I could hear the faint sounds of Rowen moving around, probably unable to sleep, probably wondering what I was thinking, what I was feeling, whether I would forgive him for the six months of silence.
I stood slowly, my pregnant body protesting the movement.
My reflection caught in the mirror across the room.
A woman with tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes, a woman who loved and lost and was trying to figure out how to love again.
A woman carrying one man’s child while learning to love another.
The complexity of it should have been overwhelming.
Should have sent me spiraling into panic or despair or the kind of paralysis that comes from having too many feelings at once.
But instead, I felt something else. Something that might have been clarity.
Or acceptance. Or just the exhausted recognition that grief and love could coexist, that moving forward didn’t mean forgetting, that choosing life didn’t mean betraying the dead.
Travis had given me permission to be happy. Had told me, in his own words, that loving Rowen didn’t diminish what we’d had. That my heart was big enough to hold both of them: the man who’d died protecting me and the man who’d walked away from power to come back to me.
I placed the letter in my nightstand drawer, closing it gently. The finality of the gesture felt right somehow, not hiding Travis’ words, but putting them somewhere safe, somewhere I could return to when I needed the reminder that he wanted this for me. That he’d understood.
The house settled around me, quiet and still. Downstairs, Rowen waited. Upstairs, I stood in the aftermath of reading Travis’ last words, devastated and relieved and confused and somehow... released.
I didn’t know what would happen next. Didn’t know if I could fully trust Rowen after months of silence.
Didn’t know if I could build a life with a man who’d chosen power over me once, even if he’d eventually chosen me over power.
But I knew one thing: Travis had loved me enough to let me go.
Had loved me enough to want my happiness more than my grief.
Had loved me enough to see that Rowen and I belonged together, even when I’d been too afraid to admit it to myself.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was the gift he left me—not just permission but understanding. Not just absolution, but a roadmap for how to survive loving two men at once, how to honor the past while building a future, how to carry grief without letting it consume you.
I sat back down on the bed, my hand resting on my belly, feeling our child move inside me.
Travis’ child. A future that existed whether I was ready for it or not.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new conversations, new moments of reckoning.
But tonight, I’d read Travis’ last words.
Tonight, I’d received his blessing. Tonight, I’d been given permission to live.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of something.
Not forgiveness... not yet. Not trust...
not completely. But understanding. The first crack in the wall I built to protect myself from the possibility of being hurt again.