Chapter 24
Knox
The afternoon light streaming through my studio windows is perfect. I've been pacing for twenty minutes, second-guessing myself, which is ridiculous. It's just a painting. Just the most important piece I've ever created, capturing the woman who changed everything.
"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Travis observes from the doorway. "She'll love it."
"What if she doesn't? What if it's too much? What if—"
"Knox." He crosses to me, steady as always. "It's Carina. She cried over a new journal this morning. She'll love it because you made it."
"This is different." I run my hands through my hair, probably making it stick up worse. "This is... I've never painted anyone the way I painted her."
"With love," he says simply. "And that's exactly why she needs to see it."
He's right. I know he's right. But my stomach still churns as I hear footsteps on the path outside. William and Carina, from the sound of their voices, debating something about tomorrow's board meeting strategy.
"—don't need to defend our relationship to anyone," she's saying.
"It's not about defending, it's about reframing," William responds.
"Or," she counters, "we could just tell the truth and let them deal with it."
They appear in the doorway, still mid-debate, but Carina stops when she sees my expression.
"Knox? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I say quickly. "I just... I have something to show you. A Christmas present. Another one, I mean."
"You already gave me—"
"This is different." I move to the covered easel in the corner, my heart hammering. "I've been working on it since that first week. Since you let me sketch you after... well."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "The painting?"
"The painting." My hands shake slightly as I grip the cloth covering. "It might not be what you expect."
"Knox," she says softly, moving closer. "Show me."
I pull the cover away in one motion, like ripping off a bandage. Then I stand back, watching her face as she takes it in.
The painting is of Carina in the kitchen that morning she made Dutch baby pancakes, but it's also every moment she's smiled at me, challenged me, chosen me.
The light plays across her skin in impossible ways—gold and rose and shadow mixing to create something that shouldn't work but does.
Her hands are in motion, captured mid-gesture as she explains something, probably about flavor profiles or knife technique.
But her eyes... her eyes are looking directly at the viewer with an expression I've only seen her wear when she looks at us.
Love mixed with wonder mixed with fierce protectiveness.
She stands frozen, one hand pressed to her chest, saying nothing. The silence stretches. William and Travis are equally quiet, and I can't read their expressions either.
"I know it's a lot," I start babbling. "And maybe too intimate for a portrait, but I wanted to capture not just how you look but how you make me feel, how you make all of us feel, and—"
"Knox." Her voice breaks on my name. "It's..."
"You hate it." My stomach drops. "I can paint another one. Something more traditional—"
"It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever made for me." Tears are streaming down her face now. "How did you... I look..."
"Loved," William supplies quietly. "You look loved."
"Because you are," I say, finding my courage. "Desperately. Completely. By all of us, but this... this is how I see you. How I've seen you since that first day you walked into Will's kitchen and turned our world upside down."
She moves closer to the painting, studying the details.
I've hidden things in it—little elements only she would notice.
The knife in her hand is the one she used during her interview.
There are paint stains on her fingers from the times she's joined me in the studio.
A coffee mug sits on the counter, steam rising in delicate spirals.
The light through the window suggests dawn, new beginnings, possibility.
"When did you paint this?” she asks.
"Mostly at night." I shrug, trying for casual and missing by miles. "When I couldn't sleep. When my brain wouldn't stop spinning. I'd come here and paint you, and everything would quiet down."
"How did you get into art?" She turns from the painting to look at me directly. "You're so talented, Knox. This is museum-quality work."
I glance at William, who nods slightly.
"After our parents had been divorced for awhile," I say slowly.
"I was eleven. Will was twenty, already in college, trying to hold everything together from a distance.
And I was... angry. So fucking angry at everything.
At them for falling apart, at Will for not being there, at myself for not being enough to make them stay together. "
"Knox," Carina breathes, but I need to finish.
"The school counselor suggested art therapy. I thought it was stupid. But the first time I put paint on canvas, something clicked. It was the only time my brain shut up, you know? The only time the anger went somewhere productive instead of destructive."
"And it became more than therapy," she says, understanding.
"It was the only thing that was mine, that the divorce couldn't touch." I laugh, but it's bitter. "Except Will saw it as another symptom of instability. Me following feelings instead of five-year plans."
"That's not—" William starts, but I wave him off.
"It's okay. We've worked through it. Mostly. But yeah, art saved me. Gave me a way to process everything when words weren't enough." I look back at the painting. "Kind of like you."
"Me?"
"You saved me too. Saved all of us, in different ways.
" I take a breath, knowing I need to say this right.
"I've always been jealous of how other people celebrate Christmas.
Normal families with traditions that don't involve lawyers and custody schedules and pretending everything's fine when it's not.
But this year... this is what I want. Every year.
The four of us, together, making new traditions that have nothing to do with the past."
"Knox," she says again, softer this time.
"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out.
But Carina, I love you. Not just want you or need you, but love you.
The way you hum when you cook. The way you stand up to Will when he's being impossible.
The way you see my art as more than an expensive hobby. I love all of it. All of you."
She crosses to me in three quick steps, throwing her arms around my neck. "I love you too," she says against my shoulder. "So much it scares me sometimes."
"Good scared or bad scared?"
"Good scared. The best scared." She pulls back to look at me. "The kind of scared that means it matters."
"It matters," I confirm, probably holding her too tight. "It all matters."
"Even when the media is camped outside our door?" Travis asks, but he's smiling.
"Even when Will tries to schedule our orgasms," I add, which makes William sputter.
"I have never—"
"Tuesday, 9:15 PM, 'intimate time,'" I quote from memory. "You literally put it on the calendar."
"That was ONE TIME."
"Boys," Carina interrupts, but she's laughing. "It's Christmas. No fighting on Christmas."
"We're not fighting," I protest. "We're expressing affection through mockery. It's how we show love."
"Dysfunctionally," Travis adds.
"But consistently," William finishes.
Carina looks between us all, shaking her head. "My beautiful, brilliant, ridiculous men."
"Yours," I agree, pulling her closer. "Always yours."
"Speaking of always," William says, moving to the window. "The snow's stopped. We should take a walk before it gets dark. Enjoy the peace while we have it."
"Together?" Carina asks, and I hear the hope in it. All four of us, in public, no hiding.
"Together," William confirms. "Let the photographers get their shots. We have nothing to hide."
Twenty minutes later, we're bundled in winter gear, trudging through fresh snow. The village below looks like a postcard, all twinkling lights and smoke rising from chimneys. Other families are out too, kids sledding, couples walking hand in hand.
"It's perfect," Carina sighs, her breath forming clouds in the cold air.
"Cold as fuck," I correct, but I'm grinning. "But yeah, perfect."
We walk without any real destination, just enjoying being outside our self-imposed prison.
Carina's in the middle, naturally, with William on her right, me on her left, and Travis bringing up the rear like a protective shadow.
We probably look ridiculous—four adults holding hands like kindergarteners on a field trip.
But I don't care. Let people stare. Let them wonder. Let them judge.
We have each other. That's what matters.
"Next year," Carina says suddenly, "I want to do this again. All of it. The tree decorating, the burnt cookies, the drama—"
"Maybe less drama," William interjects.
"Some drama," she amends. "But mostly this. Us. Together. Building traditions that are ours."
"Every year," I promise. "Until we're old and gray and complaining about our joints."
"Speak for yourself," Travis says. "I plan to age gracefully."
"You plan everything," I point out. "Probably have a spreadsheet for your wrinkles."
"That would be William," Travis corrects. "I just have a moderate skincare routine."
"Moderate," William scoffs. "You have more products than Carina."
"Quality products," Travis defends. "And Carina appreciates good skin."
"I appreciate all of you," she says with a laugh. "Even when you're ridiculous. Especially when you're ridiculous."
We end up at the small park in the village center, where someone's built an elaborate snowman family. Without discussion, we start building our own—four figures instead of the traditional three, because traditional isn’t exactly our style.
"His head's crooked," William criticizes my snowman.
"He's artistic," I defend. "Expressing himself through unconventional angles."
"He's going to fall over."
"He's leaning into life, Will. Try it sometime."
Carina throws a snowball that hits us both, ending the argument. "No fighting on Christmas!"
"That's the second time you've said that," Travis observes. "Perhaps we need a rule."
"No more rules!" we all shout in unison, then dissolve into laughter.
By the time we finish our snow family, the sun is setting, painting the mountains in shades of pink and gold. We stand together, admiring our work—four mismatched snow people holding stick hands, facing the sunset.
As we walk back to the chalet, I think about the painting waiting in my studio. How I tried to capture not just Carina but what she's brought to our lives. Joy. Hope. The possibility of a future none of us imagined but all of us want.
"Thank you," I tell her as we climb the path home.
"For what?"
"For seeing my art. For seeing me. For making this the best Christmas I've ever had."
"It's not over yet," she points out.
"No," I agree, catching William's eye over her head. He smiles—a real smile, not the boardroom version—and I know he's thinking the same thing I am.
This is just the beginning.
We have years of Christmases ahead of us. Years of traditions to build, storms to weather, love to multiply. It won't always be easy. The media attention won't disappear overnight. The board will have opinions. Dylan might resurface. We'll have to navigate four people's needs and wants and careers.
But looking at Carina's face in the dying light, her cheeks pink from cold and happiness, I know we'll figure it out. We've already survived the impossible—finding each other. Everything else is just details.
"Race you back!" I announce suddenly, taking off through the snow.
"Knox!" Carina shrieks, but she's laughing, chasing after me with the others close behind.
Four adults acting like children, running through Swiss snow on Christmas Day, heading home to our perfectly, imperfect life.
This is what I want to paint next, I decide. This moment. This feeling. This proof that broken things can heal, that families can be chosen, that love multiplied doesn't divide—it only grows.
But first, I need to start another snowball fight. Because it's Christmas, and we have traditions to maintain.
New ones. Better ones. Ones that will last a lifetime.