Epilogue
PERRY
One Year Later
The bridal suite smells like hairspray, setting powder, and nerves.
Olivia is behind me, adjusting the fall of my veil for the third time, even though it hasn’t shifted. “You are glowing.”
“I’m sweating,” I correct.
“You’re glowing because you’re about to marry a rich, devastatingly handsome doctor who is obsessed with you.”
I look at her through the mirror. “Stop,” I warn. “We just finished my makeup. You don’t get to make me cry.”
She grins. “I’m just saying. You finally got the rich husband you always joked about wanting.”
I tilt my head slightly, examining myself. “That was never actually a joke. It was a prayer.”
She snorts a laugh and smooths my hair again.
The gown is structured silk, fitted through the waist before cascading into clean lines that make me look taller, steadier. The neckline is elegant, but not demure. It frames my collarbones in a way that feels intentional.
“And I just so happen to be madly in love with him,” I say softly.
Olivia makes a dramatic choking sound behind me. “There it is. That’s the line that’s going to ruin the eyeliner.”
I blink hard. “No crying.”
“You almost cried.”
“You almost cried.”
She laughs at the accusation and moves around me, kneeling to fluff the skirt one last time. “Do you ever think about how insane the past year was?”
I let out a slow breath. “Every day.”
The masquerade. The revenge that spiraled into something real. The babies. The confession in a hallway. The wedding that nearly imploded. The hospital drama. The long, slow rebuild.
“We almost didn’t get here.”
“You two are chaos,” Olivia replies fondly. “But the good kind.”
I smile. “Chaos is no longer the goal of my life. Now, I just want to be a good wife and mother. And enjoy bits of chaos here and there, because you don’t get to be a wife and mother without it.”
She stands and looks at me again in the mirror. “You deserve this.”
I swallow. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Good.”
I turn in my seat. “I said, stop trying to make me cry.”
She presses her lips together to suppress a smile. “Fine. I’ll just say this—you look like a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.”
That part feels true.
“Besides, if we get in the weeds about who deserves what, then I would never be marrying Damian.”
“He’s lucky to have you—”
Someone knocks on the door. Three sharp raps.
Olivia freezes. “You’re not allowed to see him. It’s bad luck.”
“I’m not superstitious,” I reply.
The knock comes again.
“I need to speak with Perry,” Damian’s voice calls through the door.
My stomach flips.
Olivia crosses her arms. “This is illegal.”
“I’m the bride!” I say, laughing.
She glares at me.
I grin. And I move toward the door.
Olivia plants herself between me and the door like she’s personally responsible for warding off misfortune. “This is a terrible idea.”
“It’s five minutes,” I reply.
“It’s cursed.”
I laugh softly and move her aside anyway. “Relax. I’m not walking under a ladder.” I open the door and abruptly forget how to breathe.
He’s standing there in a tux that looks custom-built for temptation.
The black jacket fits his shoulders perfectly, the crisp white shirt sharp against his skin, the bow tie precise and infuriatingly elegant.
His hair is styled but not stiff, and there’s something about the way he’s standing—contained but coiled—that makes heat slide straight through me.
“Hi,” he says.
It’s unfair that one word can do that much damage.
Olivia makes an exaggerated gagging sound behind me. “Seriously? Can’t you wait until after the ceremony? Didn’t you say you two banged one out this morning?”
Damian laughs. “That’s girl talk? Classy.”
“I never claimed to be classy,” I retort.
Liv huffs. “Perry—”
“Five minutes,” I say firmly, not looking at her.
“Five,” she agrees reluctantly. “If you ruin your lipstick, that’s on you.”
I close the door behind her.
We’re alone. Damian looks at me slowly. Not a quick once-over. A slow, deliberate study. I feel his gaze scrape over my skin, even though we’re both dressed. “You’re breathtaking,” he says quietly.
The compliment lands differently today.
“So are you,” I reply.
“I shouldn’t be here. I know that.”
“No,” I agree.
“But I couldn’t not see you before this.”
My pulse spikes.
He stops just short of touching me, as if waiting for permission.
“You can’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to forget this is a wedding.”
His mouth curves slightly. “It’s our wedding. Propriety died a long time ago between us.” He reaches for me then, slowly, giving me time to step back if I want to.
I don’t.
His hands settle at my waist, careful at first. Respectful of fabric, of hair, of makeup. “I am trying to behave, but for the life of me, I can’t remember why.”
“You’re not doing a great job.”
He exhales softly, leaning closer. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning. Ever since we banged one out.”
I giggle, and his mouth brushes mine, light at first. Testing. The kiss deepens without urgency, without chaos. It’s controlled, like he’s memorizing me before he has to share me with a room full of guests.
“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” I whisper.
“I’ll pay for it.”
I laugh against his mouth.
His hands tighten slightly at my waist, pulling me closer. The structure of my gown presses between us, but the heat is undeniable.
“We should stop,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees. He doesn’t stop. The kiss shifts, deepens, becomes less careful. My fingers curl into his lapel. His breath roughens.
“Five minutes,” I murmur.
“Fewer now,” he replies. The edge between restraint and surrender thins. He breaks the kiss first, forehead resting against mine. “Marry me,” he says softly.
“I’m about to.”
He smiles. And for one reckless second, I consider locking the door.
He straightens my veil himself. That’s what undoes me.
Not the kiss. Not the way his hands felt at my waist. The tenderness of it.
He smooths the lace along my shoulder like he’s calibrating something precious.
Like he understands the weight of this fabric and the symbolism stitched into it.
“I can’t wait to marry you,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “I can’t wait to boss Jason around as his stepmom.”
His head tilts back with a low laugh. “You are going to abuse that power.”
“Absolutely.”
He bends and kisses me again, softer this time. When he pulls back, his eyes sweep over me again. “You look like trouble.”
I remember the first time he said that to me. Heat coils up my spine at the callback. “I always look like trouble.”
“And I’m marrying you anyway.”
“You like trouble.”
“I like you.”
I run my hand down the front of his tux jacket, fingers trailing over the smooth fabric, memorizing the feel of it under my palm. “You clean up nice.”
“You don’t,” he replies.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You look utterly sinful in a wedding gown. How do you manage that?”
I laugh, breathless.
He brushes a thumb along my lower lip, careful not to smudge the color. “After tonight,” he says quietly, voice dipping lower, “there will be no more waiting.”
Heat flares low in my stomach. “You say that like I’ve been withholding.”
“You have.”
“I didn’t this morning.”
“You’re doing it now. Your little patience game. You’re going to make me ruin that dress if I stay here any longer, aren’t you?”
I smile slowly. “Maybe.”
He leans in one last time, pressing his mouth to mine in a kiss that feels less like urgency and more like sealing something in place. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “We should stop.”
“That’s what we keep saying. And yet…” Neither of us moves for a second.
Then he straightens my bodice again, adjusting the line of it like he’s restoring order after temptation. “Finish getting ready.”
“And you go pretend to be calm.”
“I am not calm.”
“Good.”
He steps toward the door, then pauses. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He turns away from the door without another word and takes my face in both hands, before drawing me into a rough kiss. All that restraint, gone. He backs me against the wall while I pull up the layers of dress between us. But he grabs my hand. “Let me.”
He drops to his knees, then ducks beneath the layers. Then he lifts my leg over his shoulder and dives face-first against me. This fucking guy.
His fingers slide upward, pressing, stretching, teasing until I have to hold on to the clothing racks on either side of me for balance. His tongue thumps against my clit while his fingers penetrate my core. I’m losing my mind thanks to him, getting devoured in my wedding gown.
I should be furious, shouldn’t I? I can see my makeup in the mirror of the vanity across the room. It’s smeared all to hell, thanks to him, and it took far too long for—oh!
My body pulses in time with his work. I murmur a desperate, “Fuck!”
He growls into me, and I ignite, coming all over his face, his fingers. He doesn’t stop at one. He knows better, hunting a second with his tongue. It comes fast, and I can’t breathe. Once he’s sure I won’t fall over, he stands up and kisses me. I love the taste of us together, His mouth, my pussy.
His breathing hasn’t slowed. “I needed that.”
I reach over his tux trousers. “You need more than that.”
He nods wordlessly.
My dress is too big for anything romantic, but I turn around and raise what layers I can, hoping the implication is clear.
He growls under his breath and finishes the lifting of the layers. “I love that you aren’t wearing panties on our wedding day.”
“Seemed appropriate.”
He laughs, pulls my hips back just enough, and his cock snugly nudges into me from behind. We both groan from the sensation, too overcome to be quiet. He nuzzles against my neck. “Mrs. Baylock, you feel too fucking good.”
“So I’ve heard, Mr. Baylock,” I grunt.
He buries himself deep, then pulses tiny thrusts into me. Just enough to drag a few inches of his shaft against my G-spot at this angle. I’m trembling between the wall and his body. “That’s it, isn’t it? Right there—”
“You know it is,” I whisper.
“That’s five minutes!” Olivia hollers through the door.
Damian laughs hard. “That woman needs to learn patience.”
But I’m too on the edge to say much of anything at all. My voice is tight. “Soon!”
“That’s my girl,” he growls in my ear.
It’s not three more thrusts before I’m coming on him. I can’t hold still, can’t stay quiet. I’m on the verge of gushing in my wedding dress, and it’s so wrong that my orgasm balloons into something bigger. When I feel him swell inside of me, it doubles down on pleasure.
He has the good sense to pull out and come onto a towel I didn’t know he grabbed from the vanity. He barks, “Fuck!”
I spin and kiss him as he works himself out on that towel, and I damn near fall over, still dizzy from my own climax. But our lips meet, and that’s all that exists in the world for a minute. Our connection.
He pants, “That was reckless.”
“Our signature move.”
He laughs and kisses me again. “We should probably break this up before Liv has a conniption.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
One more kiss for the road, and he leaves. For a moment, the suite feels impossibly quiet.
Then the door bursts open again. Olivia storms in. “That was rude,” she says immediately.
I grin. “Get used to it. I plan on nailing my new husband every chance I get.”
She stares at me. Then laughs. “Good thing I’m the boys’ new nanny, or you’d never get any.”
I laugh so hard I nearly smudge my eyeliner.
“Let’s touch up your makeup and get you out there to marry that crazy man.”
“Yeah.”
She gets started, and for the first time all year, nothing feels precarious. It feels inevitable. “You’re glowing again.”
“I’m flushed,” I correct.
“You’re feral.”
“That too.”
She grins and moves toward me, tugging at my veil to straighten it again. “It’s your wedding day. You’re allowed to look feral.”
I look at myself in the mirror. The gown fits like armor and invitation all at once.
The bodice is structured, but the fabric moves when I breathe.
The neckline is modest enough for a church and suggestive enough for the reception.
I smooth my hands down the front of it slowly.
“After tonight,” I say thoughtfully, “I’m never going to be patient again. ”
Olivia snorts. “You were never patient.”
“I was disciplined.”
She raises a brow as a question.
“I was. In a very specific context.”
She laughs and begins fussing with the train again. “Okay, Mrs. Baylock.”
I turn toward her sharply. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“That’s terrifying.”
“You are literally marrying him in less than an hour.”
“I know, but saying it out loud feels…intense. It’s one thing when he does it. But hearing it from someone else feels odd.”
She studies me in the mirror. “You’re not scared.”
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not. It’s still weird. The name thing. I’m not sure why.”
She smiles softly at that. “Because you feel like you’re disappearing in his life?”
“Maybe. But as he said, the name thing is for social things. He doesn’t care if I don’t legally change my name. He understands what a pain in the ass it is.”
A knock sounds at the door again, lighter this time. “Two minutes,” someone calls from outside.
Olivia moves toward the door but pauses. “You really are going to nail him every chance you get, aren’t you?”
I tilt my head. “Is that a question?”
She laughs. “Those boys are going to grow up with the most inappropriate parents.”
“They’ll get used to it.”
She opens the door a crack to answer whoever is waiting, then closes it again. “Alright. It’s time.”
I take one last look at myself. The woman in the mirror looks nothing like the girl who crashed a masquerade party for revenge. And I am fine with that.
Olivia adjusts the bouquet in my hands. “You good?”
“Better than good.”
The End.