Epilogue
Eden
It was almost exactly two years to the day since I’d shown up at Wolfe Manor with a suitcase full of cheap business clothing and a head full of disaster.
Now I owned the heart of a man who made every day feel like perfection, and, most terrifying of all, a permanent “plus one” status to every family event, gala, and holiday awkwardness for the foreseeable future. I’d gone from temp to tenured, not just in my job, but in the Wolfe family.
Today was a milestone. The first time our parents (and Ruby) were present in the house at the same time, curious, kind, and, so far, not on fire. It was a fragile peace, but I was taking the win.
The official pretext was a pre-wedding planning session. In reality, it was a quiet, family event where we all managed to find some common ground and a way to be part of each other’s lives.
The kitchen was a war zone. Maribel, still reigning queen of the estate, had been up since four, barking orders in three languages and terrorizing the last batch of temporary waitstaff with tales of previous new hires who had not survived past their first breakfast. She greeted me with a slap on the back and a lecture about how she told me so and a wink.
After I made my escape back to the dining space, I took my seat and smiled at Ruby, who was beaming at me.
Gareth’s parents spoke quietly at one end of the table, his mother in pearls and pastel, his father in a suit that screamed generational trauma.
My parents were next to me, Dad in a sweater-vest, whispering dad jokes to me, and Mom in a shirt with daisies that seemed to multiply the longer you looked at it.
My grandmother, as indestructible as always, was mid-table, holding a Bloody Mary and the attention of Ruby whose eyes were shining as she listened.
I poured myself a coffee, Gareth’s hand finding my thigh as I sat.
His hair was longer now, a little softer at the edges, but the suit was still flawless and the jawline still capable of slicing a baguette.
He looked up, caught my eye, and almost, almost, smiled.
I stuck out my tongue and was rewarded with the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Darling,” Mom said, patting my shoulder. “Your father just tried to explain cryptocurrency to Gareth’s father. I think we’re all on a list now.”
I sat, squeezing her hand. “That’s okay. I’m pretty sure Gareth’s father is on three lists himself.”
She snorted into her mimosa. “You look nice, Eden. Is that a new necklace?”
I was about to make a joke about surviving Gareth’s absolute love when Grams waved her glass at me. “Eden! Come here, I need to show you something before the Bloody Marys run out.”
I excused myself and wound my way to her.
“Sit,” she said, nudging a plate of fruit and cheese toward me. “You’ve lost weight. Are you eating?”
I grinned. “Maribel says I’m part wolf now. I eat my enemies and their mistakes.”
She cackled. “Good girl.” Then, dropping her voice, she leaned in. “So. Are you and Mr. Billionaire ever going to give me a great-grandchild before I get put in the ground?”
I nearly choked on a small chunk of pineapple. “Jesus, Gram. I’m still young. Gareth still has a lot of making up to do before I’m willing to let him split his love between me and a baby.” I had no doubt he’d be an amazing dad, just like he was a phenomenal husband.
She rolled her eyes, but there was a softness there that hadn’t been present since before Dolan died. “You’re happy?” she asked, voice lower. “For real, not just for show?”
This was a persistent question, one she asked at least once a week.
I scanned the table; my parents chatting with Gareth, who couldn’t take his eyes off me, Gareth’s parents, never quite touching, but present. Even the staff, drifting in and out with practiced discretion, seemed somehow less like coworkers, but more like family at this point.
I nodded. “Yeah, Gram. For real.”
She squeezed my hand, her grip still iron. “Good. That’s all that matters. Fuck the rest.”
We both laughed, which drew a glance from Gareth’s mother and a suspicious eyebrow from Gareth himself. I waved at him, and he shook his head, just a little. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself together by sheer force of habit.
I turned back to Gram. “By the way, did you see the tribute wall for Dolan in the conservatory?”
Her eyes went glassy for a second, then she wiped them clear with a napkin. “I did. The painting is… it’s perfect. He’d have hated it.”
“He’d have mocked all of it,” I said, and we both laughed again.
It was true, the painting was this over-the-top, glorious mess of brushstrokes and attitude, commissioned by Gareth without telling anyone, installed overnight with a little plaque beneath it: Dolan Blake, 1992-2017.
Beloved, missed, never forgotten. There was even a set of “honorary” boots beneath it, and an image of his car and a replica of the leather jacket he loved wearing shadowboxed on the wall, all things Gareth had tracked down just to complete the effect.
I felt my chest tighten, but not in the old way. This was something else. A sense of being happy, finally, since the loss of my brother.
After brunch, I drifted in to look at the memorial wall again. Gareth was already there, standing before the Dolan portrait, hands folded behind him. I watched him in the reflection of one of the windows as he studied the painting with that same infuriating focus he brought to everything.
He sensed me, of course, because he always did. “Is it too much?” he asked, not turning.
“No,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
He nodded, still not facing me. “I thought about commissioning a statue. But it seemed-”
“Too much,” I finished, grinning. “You know he’d have drawn a mustache on it within five minutes.”
Finally, he turned, and the look in his eyes made my knees go soft. “I like seeing you laugh,” he said. “Even when it’s at my expense.”
I wandered to his side and leaned against him, cheek to his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. We stood like that for a minute, both looking at the portrait.
“I don’t know if I ever told you,” he said, “but I was scared the first time you brought your family here. I didn’t think I’d be… good at it.”
I reached up and squeezed his hand. “You’re not good at it,” I said. “You’re a disaster. But you’re trying, and that’s what counts.”
He exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh, and then pulled me tighter. “If I ever lose you,” he whispered, “I’ll haunt this place. I’ll have Maribel add too much sugar to your coffee.”
I barked out a laugh. “You’re an idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed the top of my head, and I felt him relax. For a man who’d built his life on unbreakable discipline, it was a huge concession.
We walked back to the dining room together. There was no drama, no fireworks, just the easy, unspoken fact of us. My parents were teaching Gareth’s mother how to play gin rummy, while Gram and Gareth’s father compared cholesterol meds. In the garden, the gardeners threw Frisbees for the dogs.
It was perfect, every bit of it.
After everyone had left, after the last car had vanished down the drive, we retreated to our private room.
“Are you tired?” Gareth asked, running a hand through his hair. “Or just pretending to avoid me?”
I smirked. “I’m always tired. But I’m never too tired for you.”
He leaned in, pressing his mouth to my neck, his hands circling my waist. “Liar,” he murmured, then nipped my earlobe. “You’d fall asleep in the middle just to spite me.”
I gasped, but it came out as a laugh. “I would not.”
“You absolutely would,” he said, steering me toward our room. “And I’d let you, because I’m a gentleman.”
He tumbled me onto the bed, then crawled in beside me, all sharp elbows and dangerous intent.
He kissed me, slow, deep, the way that said he had nowhere else to be and no one else to impress. I melted, as usual, and let him roll us until I was trapped beneath him, his weight comfort more than anything.
“Did you ever think it would end up like this?” I asked, voice muffled by his shirt.
He considered. “No. I thought you’d be gone in a week. Or I would.”
“Why?” I poked his ribs, knowing it would get a reaction.
He looked down at me, eyes suddenly serious. “Because you make me feel like I’m alive. Like I matter.” His hand found mine, threading our fingers together. “You make me want to be remembered for something other than money. Or mistakes.”
I thought about what he’d said once, that people all became just memories in boxes, collecting dust in the attic. I disagreed then, and I disagreed now.
“We’re more than boxes,” I said. “We’re the stuff that happens in between. The laughter, the bad decisions, the love and interactions.”
He smiled, real and unguarded. “I still can’t believe I get to have you.”
“You do,” I said, pulling him down. “And you always will.”
He kissed me again, slow and sure, and I let myself fall into it, every nerve ending singing, every worry fading into the kind of silence you only get when you know you’re home.
Later, as he held me and I listened to his heart slow, I thought of Gram, of Dolan, of every person who’d made me who I was. I thought of the brokenhearted girl who’d been scared to laugh too loud, to love too much, and I wanted to find her and tell her, It’s okay. You make it. And it’s worth it.
I drifted to sleep with Gareth’s arm around me and the promise of tomorrow bright and shiny and exciting.
And I was sure that wherever Dolan was, he was smiling at all of us.
THE END