Epilogue
Golden sunlight filters through the tall lodge windows, catching on dust motes that drift lazily in the warm afternoon air.
Aspen in June feels alive—birds calling from the pines, a soft hum of insects rising from the meadows, and the far-off rush of the river swollen with snowmelt.
It makes me miss some parts of Montana, of the only home I knew before coming here.
But Colorado feels closer, tighter in this forest, and like the one place on earth I’ve ever really belonged.
Inside the lodge, it’s cool but bright. The stone fireplace stands empty now, a vase of wildflowers sitting on the mantel instead.
Juniper’s soft gurgles fill the great room as she kicks on the woven rug in front of me, her little hands batting at a set of wooden blocks.
Hugh, walking through the room, stops to chat nonsense to her and stacks some of the blocks.
Then his cell rings and he rises, startled, as if forgetting that he’s Ben’s assistant and not a babysitter—although he is Junie’s godfather.
I sip iced tea—peach, not pickle juice, thank God—and curl deeper into the armchair. My body feels different now: stronger, healed. The scar from the c-section is fading, but it will never truly go away: a line that reminds me every day of the night everything changed.
“Six months,” I murmur, half to myself. “She’s already six months.”
“She’s spoiled rotten,” Stella calls from the kitchen.
I grin. “That’s your fault. You keep buying her presents.”
Stella appears a moment later, holding two mugs of coffee, her new girlfriend trailing behind her with a plate of muffins still warm from the oven.
They’ve been here a week, and it feels almost like when we were kids—except softer, freer.
Stella laughs easier these days, her shoulders looser, her eyes less guarded.
I love seeing her like this.
We settle on the couch together, Juniper squealing as Stella leans down to nuzzle her cheek and Amira smiling to see it.
“She’s perfect,” Stella says for the hundredth time this week, her voice full of awe.
“She really is,” I agree, my heart swelling as I look at my daughter sprawled on her back, kicking happily. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
Stella hesitates, then sighs. “It’s still kind of sad, though. Mom and Dad don’t even know her. Don’t know what they’re missing.”
The old ache twists, but it’s softer now, dulled by everything I’ve built here. “I know. But I can’t make them want to be part of her life. Or mine.”
“They’re too wrapped up in their own mess anyway,” Stella mutters. “Did you hear? They’re separating. Divorce papers already filed.”
Amira gives her a quick look, as if to check in and make sure she’s okay. It opens my heart to her even more. This might be just the match she’s always missed.
I blink. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Apparently it’s ugly. Dad’s already moved out. Mom’s been sniping at him every chance she gets.”
“Dad moved out?”
A strange mix of sadness and relief washes over me.
Sadness because it’s the end of something permanent, relief because maybe now their bitterness won’t always be aimed at us.
How strange to think of Mom there, in that great grand ranch house—who's helping her? Managing it all? Maybe Dad from afar, surely; he wouldn’t let Crown seeing the photos was enough, and hearing that it went off so well. I think it was important for the staff to see what they could do, too, and not feel like I’m a guillotine hanging overhead. ”
Ben gives me an approving glance, his fingers finding and intertwining with mine. Amira passes Juniper to Leo, who holds the baby with that nervous teenage expression, his grip tighter than anyone else’s. Junie laughs in his face, as if taunting his fear.
“Juniper would’ve been born in Sweden, then,” Ben chimes in, amused at the thought. “But we’ll be back soon enough.”
I imagine walking into those rooms not as the girl who always disappointed her parents, not as the one they overlooked or the business opportunity—but as Madeline Bronson, head of events for Bronson Resorts, mother to Juniper, wife to Benedict Bronson.
A family. A future.
That night, once Juniper is asleep in her crib upstairs, I stand by the window, watching rain streak the glass and lightning flash far off over the peaks. It’s gorgeous, messy, unexpected. Today was supposed to be all summer sun.
Ben comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.
“Thinking too much?” he murmurs into my hair.
“Just… thinking about how far we’ve come.”
He kisses the curve of my neck. “We’re just getting started.”
I turn in his arms, looking up at him. His eyes are steady, his smile faint but real. Somehow it’s still a surprise—that despite our scandalous, unexpected beginning, there’s no weight in my chest, no gnawing worry that it’ll all collapse.
Because I know it won’t. Not with him. Not with us.
Juniper stirs faintly through the monitor, a little sigh, and I press my forehead to Ben’s.
“Yes,” I whisper. “We’re just getting started.”
And for the first time in my life, I believe it with everything I am.
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