Epilogue #2
She smooths her dress with shaking hands, then walks back inside barefoot, her steps a little wobbly.
I follow her like a man still high off his addiction.
She bends to scoop up her strappy nude heels and sits on the edge of the booth to slip them on.
I watch as she crosses one leg over the other and fastens the tiny buckle at her ankle, her fingers delicate and practiced.
She glances up, catching me staring.
“What?”
“I married the most dangerous woman in Chicago.”
She smirks. “You’re just now figuring that out?”
I grab her hand and pull her to her feet.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go home before I fuck you on that sticky floor and ruin every sentimental impulse I had tonight.”
She laughs, looping her arm through mine.
Outside, the city’s humming. Streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, someone yells. A car horn blares. But here, in our bubble, it’s quiet.
We walk slowly. Still floating from the weightless kind of sex that only happens when there’s no more fear between you and the person you love.
Her fingers lace with mine.
“You remember the first time you kissed me?” she asks, voice low.
“Of course.”
“That’s when I knew I was done for.”
I glance at her, the warm gold of the streetlamp catching her cheekbone.
“Good.”
“You looked at me like I was already yours,” she continues. “And I didn’t want to want that. But I did.”
I stop walking. She looks up at me. I grip her hips and pull her close.
“Skye Blackwood,” I murmur, “you’ve always been mine.”
She bites her lip. I bend down and kiss her slowly. Thoroughly. She tastes like wine and sex and forever. When I pull back, she exhales shakily. “You keep doing that and I’m not going to make it to our building.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you.”
She leans her head on my shoulder as we walk.
Our building comes into view and suddenly it hits me.
I’ve never felt more at peace. Not in five years.
Not in twenty. Not ever. I look at the woman walking beside me, the one who shattered every rule I built around my life.
The one who never asked me to be anything but hers.
She glances over. “What?”
“You still take my breath away.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a fucking sap.”
“I’m the president of the Saps, remember?”
“You are,” she says, smiling. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else in charge.”
As we reach the doors to our building, she pulls me to a stop.
“Reece?”
“Yeah?”
She presses a hand to my chest.
“You still love me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m chaos and fire and everything you never knew you needed.”
I reach for her chin, tilting it up. “No,” I whisper. “I love you worse than that. I love you like a man who never believed in redemption until you handed it to him.” Her breath catches. “I love you like I’ll never stop paying for the days I wasted trying not to want you.”
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The tears in her eyes say everything.
Back at the condo, I find her in the front room we converted into a studio.
Skye’s on the floor, cross-legged in one of my old T-shirts, hair twisted into something that used to resemble a bun. Her laptop is open beside her, and there are papers everywhere—mock-ups, branding boards, half-drunk coffee, a cat asleep on top of what I assume was an important color palette.
She doesn’t see me right away. She’s chewing on the end of a pen, one hand tucked under her thigh as she scribbles notes in the margin of a sketch. Then she lifts her phone, snaps a photo of the layout, and mutters something like “bold serif is sexier, sorry” under her breath.
Five years ago, she was managing my calendar. Now, she’s managing six clients across three time zones and somehow making it look easy.
I lean against the doorway, taking my time. Just watching her in her element. This version of her, the one who’s thriving, creative, messy in the best way, undoes me more than anything else ever could.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Can you blame me?”
Her lips curve, but her eyes stay on her notes. I push off the doorway and step into the room, dodging a few scattered swatches before crouching beside her.
“Brunch is going to be chaos in an hour,” I murmur, brushing a stray curl off her cheek. “You planning to stay in here until they bang on the door?”
She finally looks at me, that spark in her eyes making my chest tighten. “Maybe I was hoping you’d come get me.”
I slide a hand to the small of her back, help her to her feet, and steal a kiss that tastes like her lingering cinnamon coffee. “Oh I’ll get you al right,” I whisper against her mouth. “And I’m joining you in that shower.”
She laughs, soft and warm, and loops her arms around my neck. “If we do that, we’re definitely going to be late.”
“Worth it.” I kiss her again, slower this time, my hands mapping the curve of her hips as she melts against me. For a moment, there’s no brunch, no noise, no family—just this quiet, perfect life we built, her dreams scattered across the floor, and her body in my arms.
Brunch is chaos.
Mimosas are flowing, someone’s laughing too loud, probably Maya, and Skye keeps sliding her bare foot up my calf under the table like she has no regard for my ability to act civilized.
Which she doesn’t. And I love her for it.
“Okay but seriously,” Maya says, stabbing a chunk of avocado toast with theatrical intensity, “can we all take a moment to acknowledge that this all started because I told her to hook up with you for the plot ?”
Skye chokes on her mimosa.
Archer groans and covers his face. His wife Kendall, sweet and sharp and far too tolerant of his bullshit, just laughs.
“You did not ,” Kendall says to Maya.
“I absolutely did,” Maya replies. “She was spiraling post-Shane, and I told her she needed a hot rebound. Just some good, no strings attached sex, and when I pointed you out at the bar, that’s when it all kind of fell apart.
But I convinced her that it could just be a fun little blip in her story—ya know, something you do for the plot. ”
Skye’s face is crimson. “It was supposed to be one night.”
“You married him,” Maya deadpans. “The plot plotted back.”
Everyone laughs, and I catch Skye’s eye from across the table. She’s glowing. Relaxed. Happy. Exactly how she should be.
“How’s the firefighter?” Skye asks, steering the attention off herself.
Maya’s lips curve into a private smile. “Hot. Obsessive. Knows how to use a hose in and out of uniform.”
Archer groans again. “Why do I come to these things?”
“Because you love us,” Skye singsongs.
“Because you’d be disowned otherwise,” Maya adds.
“Because Kendall bribes me with sex if I play nice,” he mutters.
“Damn right I do,” Kendall says, raising her glass.
“Okay,” I say, tossing my napkin down onto the breakfast table, “I’m not interested in my hearing about my son like that.”
“Oh, but I have to hear about how my dad had sex in his fucking office two days ago? Or rather, fucking walked in on it.” Archer rolls his eyes, reaching for the entire bottle of champagne instead of his mimosa.
“Oh, right,” Skye says, her face flaming now. “Oops, forgot about that.”
“Fuck,” I groan, trying to laugh through the dynamic that is our family. “To be fair,” I say, pointing toward him, “I’ve asked you multiple times to knock before marching into my office.”
“To be fair,” Archer snaps back, “I didn’t expect my stepmom to be on her back on your desk, with her heels over your shoulders in the middle of the fucking workday.”
The entire table is laughing now, everyone’s face a different shade of red.
“Baby,” Kendall says, reaching over to calm Archer, “to be fair, your desk has also seen its fair share of, umm, encounters.”
“Oh.” I laugh, pointing my finger at my son. “So it’s not just me, then?”
Archer rolls his eyes and drags his hands dramatically down his face. “I’m done talking about it, thank you.”
The banter continues. Natural. Like this makes sense now in a fucked-up way… our weird, twisted, messy family. Archer doesn’t flinch anymore when Skye curls into my side.
And me? I just sit back and breathe it all in.
This life. This woman. This table full of complicated, beautiful people who made it through hell and found something like peace on the other side.
Skye leans into me and whispers, “You know, she wasn’t wrong.”
“About what?”
She kisses my jaw. “Fucking you was great for the plot.”
I growl low in my throat and slide my hand over her thigh.
“Careful,” I whisper. “Say shit like that and I’ll fuck you on the kitchen island before the dishes are even cleared and really fuck Archer’s world up.”
She shivers. “So predictable.”
“Consistent,” I correct. “And still obsessed.”
Kendall raises her glass. “To happy endings.”
Skye locks eyes with me and smiles.
“To the plot,” she says.
I raise my glass and toast the chaos that brought us here.
Because it turns out, the plot knew exactly what the fuck it was doing.
Enjoy a dominant and filthy talking billionaire? Make sure to check out the rest of the Chicago Billionaire Series.
You know that feeling—the one where you tell yourself it’s a terrible idea but you’re going to do it anyway?
Even though you know that this man isn’t just your father’s best friend who’s twenty years your senior…he’s your new boss.