Epilogue Two
Serena
Eighteen years later
“Happy birthday, Mom!”
I wake to sunlight and roses.
For a split second I don’t know where I am. The curtains are half open, light pouring into our bedroom in soft gold. The sheets are warm, heavy, familiar. And then I focus.
Maddox stands at the edge of the bed, taller like his father now, holding a massive bouquet of white roses in his arms. He’s no longer the little boy who carried our rings down a gravel aisle. He’s a man, broad shoulders, his father’s eyes, but softer somehow. Kinder.
Celeste stands a few steps behind him, phone raised, grinning like this is the most important documentary she has ever filmed.
“Say something emotional, Mom,” she whispers dramatically.
And then I see Lorenzo.
He stands at the foot of the bed holding a cake.
Not just any cake.
It’s shaped like an open book, detailed frosting pages edged in gold, and written across the top in elegant script:
Serena Evelyn Moretti
New York Times Bestselling Author
My breath catches.
Eighteen years ago, I published my first thriller, a story about a woman held captive by her husband, a woman who escaped only to discover the monster she feared wasn’t an outsider but the man she married. I remember the sleepless nights. The doubt. The fear of being seen.
It exploded.
Readers connected. Women wrote to me saying they saw themselves in her strength. That they felt less alone. That they found courage in fiction.
Since then, I’ve published a book every single year.
Book tours. Signings. Fan meetings. Panels. Late nights drafting stories while my children slept down the hall and my husband read over my shoulder pretending not to be impressed.
I built something of my own.
Not from trauma.
But from surviving it.
And now, at forty-five, I can say I’m proud of the woman I became.
“Happy birthday, love.”
Lorenzo leans in and kisses me softly.
And I swear to God, this man only becomes more attractive with time.
There’s silver threading through his dark hair now. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. His body is still strong, still commanding, but there’s a calm to him that didn’t exist when we were young and bleeding through life.
Eighteen years of marriage.
Almost twenty-one since we first crashed into each other like fate was impatient.
I reach out and touch his face.
He still looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
“Oh God,” I laugh softly, brushing it away. “You should really stop putting candles that match my age.”
I’m Forty-five.
Lorenzo replies without hesitation. “You age like fine wine, love.”
I blush.
After all these years.
After children, books, scandals, wars, survival, this man still makes me blush.
“I love you,” I tell him quietly.
Because we almost didn’t get this.
We almost lost each other more times than I can count.
“I love you too,” he answers, his voice steady and certain like it was on the day he said it under Tuscan sky.
I throw the covers aside and sit up, opening my arms.
“You two, come here.”
Maddox sets the roses down carefully and steps forward, wrapping his arms around me. He smells like his father’s cologne now, taller than I ever imagined he’d be. Celeste squeezes in from the other side, still filming until Lorenzo gently takes the phone from her hand.
“Family moment,” he says.
She rolls her eyes but melts into the hug anyway, her resistance lasting only a second before she folds into us.
And there we are, tangled together like we have been for most of our lives.
Eighteen years married. Two grown children standing beside us.
Books on shelves across the world, stories that somehow carried pieces of us into places we will never see.
Lorenzo’s arm wraps around all three of us from behind, pulling us closer until there is barely any space left between us. His warmth settles against my back, steady and familiar.
For a moment, the world feels quiet. All the chaos, all the blood, all the years of fighting just to survive fade into the background. This is the ending I never believed I would get. Not a fairy tale. Not perfection. But survival that, somehow, turned into something beautiful.
“I’m sorry to ruin this beautiful family moment,” Celeste says, already stepping backward toward the door like she hopes if she keeps moving we won’t interrogate her, “but I have to meet Aria.”
She doesn’t look at us when she says it. She looks at the window.
I know that move. I invented that move.
She has the exact same tell I had at twenty. Whenever I lied to my mother, I’d suddenly find the curtains fascinating.
“We need to go shopping,” she adds quickly, smoothing her hair over her shoulder. “Since we’re going back to Montclair Royal University in September.”
Lorenzo’s entire posture shifts without him raising his voice. It’s subtle, shoulders straightening, jaw tightening, eyes sharpening, but I’ve lived with this man long enough to know when he’s not buying something.
“Celeste Chiara Moretti.”
The full name.
The tone.
Authoritative. Controlled. It still does something to me after all these years, which is frankly embarrassing.
Celeste blinks her lashes at him, attempting innocence.
“Is there any reason you’re lying?” he asks calmly.
Her cheeks turn pink instantly, and then deeper red. She laughs, too high, too fast. “No. Not at all. Just shopping.”
She gives him that smile, the one that used to melt him when she was five and asking for another bedtime story. It does not melt him now.
“That’s interesting,” Lorenzo replies mildly. “Because Lev told me Aria is away with her grandparents this week.”
Silence drops into the room like a brick.
Maddox, who has been leaning casually against the dresser, straightens slowly and folds his arms across his chest. He doesn’t even look surprised.
“Oh!” Celeste says quickly, too quickly. “I meant—”
“Zayn?” Maddox says flatly, cutting her off.
Celeste’s head snaps toward him. “You traitor!”
Lorenzo closes his eyes briefly and rubs his temples. “I guess a death threat doesn’t stop the idiot from sneaking around with my daughter,” he mutters.
“Maybe we should stick to facts,” Maddox says calmly, already sounding like he’s negotiating a business deal instead of discussing his sister’s love life. He really is his father’s son when he gets like this, protective, measured, borderline intimidating.
“Mom?” Celeste says, turning to me with wide eyes. “Please help.”
I lift both hands in surrender. “All right. Stop. Both of you.”
They both look at me like I’ve betrayed them equally.
“Celeste, sweetheart,” I say carefully, “I just hope Zayn isn’t the psycho one.”
“Of course not!” she says instantly. “That’s his twin brother, Alex.”
“That’s. . . comforting,” I reply, though it absolutely is not.
We don’t know Zayn well. We know his parents. And that’s enough to make all of us suspicious.
“Tell him,” Maddox adds, his tone still calm but edged, “that next time I see him, I’ll make sure he’s inside the car when I light it on fire.”
“What?” I whip around to look at him.
Lorenzo smirks.
These two are insufferable when they’re united.
“Don’t worry, love,” Lorenzo says casually, sliding an arm around my waist. “They’re exaggerating.”
I give him a look. “They are not exaggerating.”
Celeste throws her hands up. “For God’s sake, I’m twenty, not twelve! Zayn isn’t some criminal mastermind. He’s just—”
“A boy,” Maddox interrupts.
“A boy,” Lorenzo repeats, and somehow, he makes the word sound like a felony.
The doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the calm of the morning.
I close my eyes for half a second and inhale slowly.
For the love of God, if that boy had the nerve to show up at our door after Lorenzo practically threatened him without even speaking directly to him, I swear I might lose the composure I’ve worked so hard to build over the years.
And when I open it, of course it’s him.
He stands there like he belongs in a magazine spread.
Taller than his father, broader too, but with the same messy blond hair that looks effortless in that calculated way rich boys somehow perfect.
His features are sharper, more defined, but it’s his eyes that stop me for a fraction of a second.
One green. One dark blue. Exactly like his mother’s.
The kind of face that girls fall for before they understand the consequences.
This boy will break my daughter’s heart one day.
I feel it instinctively, the way only a mother can.
I’m already forming a polite but firm dismissal in my mind when I notice what he’s holding.
A bouquet.
White roses.
Fresh, elegant, carefully arranged. Thoughtful.
“Happy birthday, Mrs Moretti,” he says, his voice steady, respectful. Not cocky. Not defensive. Just calm.
I study him carefully, trying to read what sits behind that composed exterior. I can’t. That bothers me more than arrogance would have. I take the flowers slowly, still weighing him like he’s a business proposal I don’t entirely trust.
“Thank you,” I say evenly.
Before I can add anything else, Celeste appears behind me like she’s been waiting for this exact second.
“Thank you so much, Mom!” she exclaims dramatically, as if I personally cultivated the roses in our garden.
She kisses my cheek quickly and then slips past me before I can stop her.
She runs toward him, jumps into his arms without hesitation, and he catches her easily, like it’s instinct. They laugh. They look young. Too young.
I close the door slowly.
“Who was it?” Lorenzo calls from the kitchen.
He doesn’t sound suspicious.
“Uhm. . . just delivery!” I reply, perhaps too quickly. “Sienna sent me these flowers. Aren’t they lovely?” I lift the bouquet slightly as proof, making the mistake of glancing toward the curtains instead of holding his gaze. Damn me and my inability to lie convincingly.
Maddox is already checking his phone. He doesn’t even try to hide it.
His jaw tightens slightly, then he looks at me, and I know instantly he’s tracking her location.
He doesn’t say anything out loud, but he doesn’t need to.
He knows. And now Lorenzo is staring at me from the kitchen doorway with that quiet, calculating look that means he has pieced it together as well.
“I’m choosing peace today,” I say firmly before either of them can start. “It’s my birthday.”
Maddox slips his phone into his pocket. “I’m going to meet Milan. See you later. Happy birthday, Mom.” He kisses my cheek, but there’s tension in him, protective, territorial, the same instinct his father carries in his bones.
I step into the kitchen and Lorenzo is already there, whiskey in hand, leaning against the counter like he owns the night. My birthday cake sits beside him, untouched, the candles long burned out. He doesn’t look at the cake.
He looks at me.
The amber in his glass catches the light. So do his eyes.
I walk toward him slowly. Not shy. Not innocent. I slide my arms around his waist and press myself against him. His hand settles at the small of my back, fingers spreading possessively.
He doesn’t ask permission.
He lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing. My breath catches. The marble is cold beneath me, but his body between my thighs is heat and pressure and promise.
His hand drags down my dress.
Fabric tears.
It hits the floor.
His gaze drops.
A slow, dangerous smirk curves his mouth.
“No panties?” His lips brush my neck, then his teeth follow. A sharp bite that makes me gasp.
“I was expecting my birthday gift,” I whisper, my pulse pounding between my legs.
His hand slides up my thigh. Higher. Higher. His fingers press against my bare pussy, slow, deliberate.
“Is it your birthday every day, love?” His voice is dark velvet against my skin. “Because you get this gift every day.”
His thumb circles lazily and I melt against him.
“Sometimes twice,” he adds, his cock hard against my inner thigh, reminding me exactly what he means.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “You might be right.”
He pulls back just enough to grab the cake. Thick chocolate and crushed raspberries smear over his fingers before he spreads it over my breasts. The cool sweetness against my heated skin makes me shiver.
Then his mouth follows.
He licks slowly. Thoroughly. Like he has all the time in the world. His tongue drags over me while his hand returns between my thighs, stroking, teasing, making my pussy ache for more.
I’m wet. So wet.
He takes more cake and presses his fingers to my lips.
“Taste.”
I suck the chocolate from his fingers, watching him through heavy lashes. The sweetness melts on my tongue. My mouth waters.
So does everything else.
He pushes me back onto the table, my spine hitting the cold surface. His hands pin my thighs apart. His breath brushes my pussy and I shudder.
“You eat your cake,” he murmurs, his voice low and filthy. “I’ll enjoy mine.”
And then his mouth is on me.
He devours me like I belong to him, tongue, teeth, lips dragging over my clit until I cry out his name. His hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise while his other hand keeps me exactly where he wants me.
“Oh, Lorenzo—”
I don’t even know if the door is locked.
I don’t care.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes dark and hungry. “That cake doesn’t stand a chance,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “You’re sweeter than anything on this fucking table.”
Then he buries his face between my thighs again, making good on the promise.
And I come undone against his mouth, tasting chocolate and sin and knowing he’s right.
He always is.
Loving Lorenzo isn’t easy. It never has been.
It was never meant to be soft or simple or safe.
Loving him is choosing fire and knowing it might burn, choosing strength even when it comes wrapped in darkness.
But it’s honest. Brutally honest. It’s raw and flawed and fierce, stitched together with scars and second chances and everything we survived to get here.
And it’s ours.
I’ve seen what he is capable of.
And I still choose him.
I choose the man who would burn the world for me and the man who learned how to hold me gently. I choose the protector, the sinner, the husband, the father. I choose the version of him that fights and the version that loves just as fiercely.
And he chooses me back.
Not out of possession. Not out of control. But out of love that has been tested and rebuilt and reforged into something unbreakable.
I love what we built from chaos. I love the home that replaced the warzone. I love the laughter that echoes where there used to be silence. I love the life we carved out with stubborn hands and relentless hearts.
It isn’t perfect.
But it’s real.
The end.