Extended Epilogue
ELIANA
Five Years Later
T he sound of small feet thundering down the hallway jolts me awake at precisely six-thirty in the morning, which means Luna has once again managed to escape from her toddler-proofed bedroom. I hear her voice echoing through the house—a mixture of triumph and mischief that's become the soundtrack of our lives.
"Daddy Rhys! Daddy Rhys! The pancakes aren't making themselves!"
I can't help but smile as I stretch in bed, careful not to wake the three men still sprawled around me in various states of unconsciousness. Five years of early mornings courtesy of our daughter haven't made any of them morning people, though they've all become surprisingly functional when Luna's involved.
"Mommy!" Her voice is getting closer, accompanied by what sounds like a small stampede. "The daddies are being lazy again!"
Before I can respond, my bedroom door bursts open and Luna launches herself onto the bed with the kind of fearless abandon that gives me heart palpitations on a daily basis. She's wearing mismatched pajamas—one leg striped, one polka-dotted—and her dark curls are sticking up at impossible angles despite my attempts to tame them with a silk pillowcase.
"Good morning, sunshine," I murmur, catching her in a hug before she can accidentally knee anyone in a sensitive area. At four years old, Luna has mastered the art of strategic body placement during her morning bed invasions.
"It's pancake day!" she announces with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for winning the lottery. "Daddy Rhys promised yesterday, and promises are very important, right Mommy?"
"Very important," I agree, shooting a pointed look at Rhys, who's now blinking awake with the confused expression of someone who definitely made promises he can't quite remember.
"Did I promise pancakes?" he asks groggily, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
"Chocolate chip pancakes," Luna clarifies with the precision of someone who takes breakfast very seriously. "With whipped cream. And strawberries. And maybe some of those little sprinkles that make everything pretty."
"That's not breakfast, that's dessert," Kael observes, though he's already sitting up and reaching for Luna, who immediately transfers her allegiance to whichever parent is most awake at any given moment.
"Dessert for breakfast is the best kind of breakfast," she declares with four-year-old logic that's hard to argue with.
Fen, who's been awake for the past five minutes but pretending to sleep in hopes of avoiding the early morning chaos, finally opens his eyes with a resigned sigh. "I suppose we should get up before she decides to make breakfast herself again."
The memory of Luna's last independent cooking adventure—which involved flour on every surface of the kitchen and somehow resulted in pancake batter on the ceiling—is enough motivation to get all of us moving.
"I'll start the coffee," I offer, knowing that none of them are fully human before caffeine.
"I'll supervise Luna's outfit selection," Kael volunteers, which is code for 'prevent her from wearing her Halloween costume to preschool again.'
"Pancakes are on me," Rhys says, already mentally calculating ingredient ratios.
"And I'll check the morning briefings," Fen adds, because even five years of domestic bliss haven't cured his compulsive need to start each day by assessing potential threats to our security.
As I make my way to the kitchen, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and pause. Five years have changed me in ways both subtle and profound. There are laugh lines around my eyes that weren't there before, and my body carries the soft curves that come from pregnancy and breastfeeding and the kind of contentment that makes you less concerned with magazine-perfect fitness. My hair is longer now, often pulled back in practical styles that can survive toddler hands and writerly deadlines.
But it's my eyes that show the biggest change. There's a confidence there that didn't exist when I first arrived in this house—the settled assurance of someone who knows exactly where they belong.
The kitchen is already warm from the morning sun streaming through the windows, and I start the coffee maker with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious ceremonies. The familiar sounds of my family starting their day drift down from upstairs—Luna's chattering commentary on wardrobe choices, Kael's patient responses, Rhys humming something off-key in the shower.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I glance at the screen to see a text from my publisher: Final tour schedule attached. Thirty cities in six weeks. This is going to be huge, Eliana.
My latest novel is getting the kind of promotional push most authors only dream of, complete with major bookstore partnerships, television interviews, and a marketing budget that makes my head spin. It's the culmination of years of building my career, establishing my brand, proving that stories about unconventional love can find mainstream success.
As I look at the tour schedule, all I can think about is six weeks away from morning pancake negotiations and bedtime stories and the daily rhythm of our life together.
"Heavy thoughts for seven in the morning," Fen observes, appearing in the kitchen with his usual silent grace. He's already dressed for the day in the kind of effortlessly professional attire that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine, even at this ungodly hour.
"Just work stuff," I say, turning the phone face-down on the counter. "Nothing that can't wait until after breakfast."
He gives me the kind of look that suggests he knows I'm deflecting, but he doesn't push. Instead, he pours himself coffee and settles at the breakfast bar, opening his laptop to scan through whatever security briefings arrived overnight.
"Anything interesting?" I ask, nodding toward his screen.
"The Henderson contract is moving forward," he says, referencing a potential client who wants to hire their company for a six-month project in Seattle. "They're offering serious money, but it would mean relocating the entire operation."
The casual way he mentions this makes my stomach drop. We've talked about the possibility of expansion before, but always in abstract terms—someday, maybe, if the right opportunity came along. Now it sounds like 'someday' might be happening whether we're ready or not.
"How serious?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Serious enough that we're flying out next week to meet with them in person. All three of us."
Before I can respond, Rhys appears in the kitchen with Luna perched on his shoulders, both of them wearing matching expressions of mischief. She's managed to convince him to let her wear her tutu over her leggings, and he's sporting a butterfly hair clip that she clearly insisted on.
"Someone has strong opinions about fashion accessories," he announces, reaching up to steady Luna as she leans forward to inspect the coffee maker.
"I made Daddy Rhys pretty," she declares with satisfaction. "Mommy, can I have coffee too? Just a little tiny bit?"
"Nice try, sweetheart," I tell her, lifting her down from Rhys's shoulders. "But coffee is for grown-ups. How about orange juice?"
"Orange juice with bubbles?" she negotiates hopefully.
“Yes,” I agree, because picking your battles is a crucial parenting skill.
As Rhys starts assembling pancake ingredients with the focused intensity he usually reserves for complex recipes, Kael joins us in the kitchen. He looks remarkably put-together for someone who was unconscious twenty minutes ago, his hair tamed and his clothes wrinkle-free.
"So," he says without preamble, "I got a call from that publisher in New York yesterday. The one who's been trying to poach me for their in-house security consulting."
My heart sinks a little further. Between Fen's Seattle opportunity and now this, it feels like the universe is conspiring to scatter our carefully constructed life to the winds.
"And?" I prompt, though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.
"They've increased their offer. Significantly. We're talking about enough money to set up Luna's college fund and have plenty left over for whatever comes next."
Luna, who has been listening to this conversation with the intense focus she applies to anything that might affect her routine, pipes up with characteristic directness: "Are we moving away from our house?"
Our individual successes are starting to pull in different directions, and for the first time since we've been together, it's not clear how to maintain our unity while pursuing our separate ambitions.
"We're just exploring options, sunshine," Rhys says gently, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "Nothing's decided yet."
"I don't want to explore options," Luna declares with the stubborn certainty that's inherited from all four of her parents. "I like our house. I like my room. I like my school and my friends and Mrs. Patterson who teaches us about butterflies."
Out of the mouths of babes. She's articulated exactly what I've been feeling but haven't known how to express—the deep reluctance to disrupt something that works so well.
"What about you?" Kael asks me directly. "Your tour schedule is going to keep you traveling for months, and I know there's been talk about a television adaptation of your books."
He's right, of course. The success of my novels has opened doors I never imagined, including preliminary discussions about adapting my stories for a streaming series. It's the kind of opportunity that could change everything—financially, professionally, personally.
"It's all just possibilities right now," I say carefully. "Nothing concrete."
But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true. The tour is very concrete, starting next month. The television meetings are scheduled for next week. The momentum of my career has reached a point where saying no to opportunities feels like professional suicide.
"Are the daddies going away?" she asks suddenly, syrup coating her chin and concern clouding her dark eyes.
"No one's going anywhere right now," I assure her, though the words feel hollow even as I say them.
"But people do go away sometimes," she presses with the relentless logic of a child who's heard enough adult conversations to understand that change is coming. "Like when Aunt Rebecca went to that place with the funny name."
Stablewood. Rebecca's mysterious departure six months ago is still a source of confusion and concern for all of us. Her explanation about her grandmother's illness had felt incomplete, evasive in a way that was completely unlike her usual directness. The few phone calls we've had since then have been similarly unsatisfying—cheerful but superficial, lacking the deep intimacy that's characterized our friendship for years.
"Aunt Rebecca had family business to take care of," I explain gently. "Sometimes grown-ups have to make difficult choices about where they need to be."
"But we're her family too," Luna points out with devastating accuracy. "She said I was her favorite niece."
"You're her only niece," Kael reminds her with a small smile.
"That's what makes me the favorite," she replies seriously, and despite everything, I find myself laughing.
After breakfast, as the men get ready for their respective days and Luna settles into her elaborate morning ritual of choosing books for show-and-tell, I find myself staring at my phone again. The tour schedule seems more daunting now, six weeks of hotel rooms and event venues and conversations with strangers about my work.
It's what I've always wanted—the recognition, the success, the validation that my stories matter. But somehow, wanting it feels different now that having it means time away from this life we've built.
"Second thoughts?" Rhys asks, appearing beside me with the quiet perception that's always been his gift.
"Third and fourth thoughts," I admit. "Is it wrong that part of me wants to turn it all down? Stay here, keep writing, maintain what we have?"
"It's not wrong," he says carefully. "But it might not be realistic. You've worked too hard to get here to walk away now."
"Have I, though? Or have I just gotten caught up in other people's definitions of success?"
It's a question that's been nagging at me for months, intensified by watching Luna grow and change and needing us in ways that won't wait for convenient scheduling. The woman who fled her marriage five years ago was desperate for independence, for the freedom to pursue her dreams without compromise. Now I'm discovering that true freedom might actually be the ability to choose what matters most, even if it means saying no to opportunities others would kill for.
"What does your gut tell you?" Rhys asks, using the question that's become our shorthand for working through difficult decisions.
"That I'm scared," I admit. "Scared of making the wrong choice."
He nods, understanding without judgment. "We could make it work, you know. The tour, the travel, all of it. We've figured out harder things."
"Could we? Really? With you three potentially taking on projects that require relocation, and Luna needing stability, and all the logistics of maintaining a four-way relationship across multiple time zones?"
The questions hang between us, highlighting the complexity of our situation in ways that have no easy answers.
"We need to have a real conversation about this," I say finally. "All of us together, after Luna's in bed. Figure out what we actually want versus what we think we should want."
"Agreed," he says, but I can see the worry in his eyes.