EPILOGUE
PETRA
I flip down the mirrored visor in Bryce’s Aston Martin and immediately regret it. My reflection shows smeared eyeliner, my lopsided graduation cap, and a weird sheen of post-ceremony sweat. My lipstick has gone AWOL thanks to the three-hour event and Bryce’s congratulatory kisses.
Time for a refresh.
I swipe the color across my lips, watching my mouth go from sleep-deprived college grad to totally kissable .
Bryce’s eyes flick to me at a red light, and a familiar, slow smile spreads across his face—the one that says, I want to worship you against the closest solid surface.
“You know I could launch a lipstick line just for you?” he says. “Call it ‘Petra Red’ and charge a fortune for your signature shade.”
“And deprive the world of affordable beauty products? What kind of monster do you take me for? Besides, this little tube has gotten me through more disasters than your bank account has digits.”
He chuckles. “I think I may have developed a graduation gown fetish. I’m having very inappropriate thoughts wondering about what you’re wearing under there.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Moneybags.”
“I would and I will, as soon as we get home, Mrs. Sterling.”
“Promises, promises. You’d say I look hot in a hazmat suit if you could strip it off me.”
“Should I order one?”
I burst out laughing. “I do love that you’ve fully embraced your dirty side.”
He’s adorable. And mine. Which, yeah, still blows my mind a little.
We’re cruising down Sunset Boulevard, rolling past palm trees and twenty-dollar smoothie shops. I lean my head back and my tassel taps against the window. This stretch of Sunset feels different today. Like it’s winking at me. Like it knows I finally crossed some invisible finish line.
“One degree down, Pip. One to go.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“Have you decided about taking that gap year before law school? ”
“I’m scared if I stop, I won’t start again. But also, I’m so goddamn exhausted, I could sleep for five years straight.”
He reaches over, laces our fingers together, and gives my hand a squeeze that says, I’m here for you .
And he is. His support has never wavered through an incredibly long year of sprinting, studying, and sleepless nights.
After our holy-shit-we-did-that wedding, Bryce and Gavin got their asses back to L.A. in under twenty-four hours. No honeymoon—unless you count christening the bedroom on Bryce’s jet (and yeah, we did break the headboard).
As soon as Heartvest went public, it blew up.
Stock prices shot through the roof, and suddenly everyone wanted a piece of the “rebel billionaire’s” investment app.
Their user base doubled, then tripled, and then I stopped counting (because that many zeros makes my head hurt).
Bryce and Gavin have been hiring people left and right, expanding faster than they thought possible.
It’s like watching someone build a rocket ship while riding it.
The media attention has been relentless, especially after Bryce’s very public middle finger to the Sterling Family empire. Turns out people prefer a good “choosing love over legacy” story, and Bryce unwittingly became the poster child for rejecting nepotism in favor of something meaningful.
The best part? Reginald Sterling has been suspiciously quiet.
After his very public humiliation at our wedding, he slithered back to Manhattan and decided not to retire.
Bryce stayed on the Sterling Industries board, if only to keep the old man in check.
It’s power, but subtle. Like a finger hovering over a detonate button labeled: Try Me, Bitch .
I do still wonder if Bryce will take over his family empire…
someday. Maybe transform it into something that doesn’t just hoard wealth like a financial dragon.
But for now, Bryce says he’s perfectly happy living without a five-, ten-, or even twenty-year plan.
And honestly? Watching him discover who he is without someone else’s script has been better than any honeymoon.
As for Fiona… hoo boy.
Let’s say karma didn’t just knock on her door—it repossessed the mansion, torched the designer closet, and left a bag of flaming dog poop signed by “the poor girl.”
Turns out, being “American Royalty” doesn’t mean much in prison. She’s learning to make her own bed, do her own laundry, and eat food that’s all the same color. The girl who told me I was a “poor, white trash loser” is now literally picking up trash on the interstate.
And Marvin Grossman (yes, we all learned Echo’s real name) was giving art lessons in prison. Unfortunately, they were forgery lessons, so he scored himself another ten years.
I’d feel bad for them if I weren’t so busy enjoying the poetic justice.
Bryce lifts our joined hands to his lips and gently kisses the back of mine.
Between his insane work schedule and my class load, finding a place to live turned into a months-long nightmare. We ping-ponged between his sterile mansion and my shoebox apartment like nomadic newlyweds, living out of suitcases and pretending it was romantic (it wasn’t) .
Bryce kept pushing Beverly Hills. He’d say, “Logical commute, safe neighborhood” and I’d reply with, “Snooty, boring, and hell to the no.” My stubborn ass refused to surrender to zip code snobbery until…
“Waaa! Waaah!”
Until she happened.
Our three-month-old baby wails to life in the back seat like a tiny but mighty airhorn. I spin around and switch to mama-bear mode. There she is, my precious little storm: black hair, red-faced, and furious in her way-too-fancy car seat (designer, really?) .
“Oh no, baby girl, what’s wrong?” I ask, reaching back to stroke her velvet-soft cheek.
I fish around for her pacifier—a simple pink one. Bryce wanted a diamond-encrusted binky, but I can be pretty persuasive when I threaten his vajayjay privileges. Our baby glares with ice-blue eyes, but then she slowly latches on with a pouty grunt. Blessed silence fills the vehicle.
“Tell Mommy she’s a superstar for finishing college, Ruby,” Bryce coos in his special baby-doting voice.
I snort. “Daddy should know by now that Ruby only cares about one thing. Mommy’s boobs.”
“We’ve had in-depth discussions,” he says, eyes twinkling. “And we’re both heavily invested in the boobs department.”
“Should Daddy drive his absurdly expensive car around the block again so Baby Empress can finish her nap?”
Ruby grunts.
“That’s a yes. Make it snappy, Moneybags.”
He signals left. “Already turning.”
Neither of us was even slightly interested in protection after “I do.” We got pregnant instantly (and I mean instantly) .
Turns out a hurricane of unprotected newlywed sex was no match for my birth control.
Later—after I stopped throwing up daily—Bryce admitted he secretly hoped I’d get pregnant that night we made love on the beach.
He got what he wished for. Our little Ruby.
If everyone thought our lightning-fast wedding was shocking, the pregnancy announcement made their heads explode. His mother needed smelling salts when we dropped the news.
Bryce chose our daughter’s name, and honestly, I melted when he told me why. Ruby—after my ruby ring and the red shade of my lips; the color that’s apparently burned into his soul.
“She’s going to be twice the handful you are,” he whispers.
“That’ll be your fault for spoiling her.”
This man doesn’t mess around when it comes to his girls.
Ruby’s closet rivals Nordstrom, her nursery belongs in a magazine, and she owns designer… well, everything.
And me? I’m also spoiled rotten. Not because I need it, but because he’s a gift giver and he gets twitchy if he can’t prove it.
He bought me a fancy espresso machine (that I still don’t know how to use) .
Surprise deliveries of lingerie and flowers.
A weekend to Paris where we didn’t wear pants the entire time.
And oh yeah, he flew in the band Heart — freaking Heart!
—to serenade me for my twenty-sixth birthday.
I was a full-on blubbering snot-monster into my candlelit dinner.
This life? It’s bananas.
But mostly, he’s happy playing house like a normal husband. We do Kraft Mac & Cheese at least once a week—the good stuff—and order CPK takeout while binge-watching whatever Netflix serves up (why yes, algorithm, we do love romcoms) .
Not saying we don’t still hit the occasional black-tie gala, where I pretend to know which one’s the salad fork (I am a billionaire’s wife, after all). But we’re making up the rules as we go, answering only to each other.
Most shocking of all is how domesticated I’ve become. We have an actual house now, a modest three-bedroom ranch in Beverly Hills with real curtains (not from a shower) and an actual bed instead of just a mattress. I’ll tolerate the 90210 zip code if it means more family time.
“B, between finals and night feeds, I haven’t taken a full breath since Easter. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m hopping on the next flight to Europe and you’re raising our adorable tyrant alone.”
“Oh, no. I’ll hire private investigators. There’s no escape clause now, Mrs. Sterling. But I will take night duty so you can get a full eight hours.”
“That deal will get you full-body access. Partially clothed, or tied up naked—your choice.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Keep talking like that, and you can sleep until Tuesday.”
Bryce pulls into our driveway and puts the car in park. That’s when I spot it—my beautiful disaster of a car parked on the street like a middle finger to the neighborhood’s HOA.
“Um, why is my Lexus out of the garage?”
“I needed the space to build Ruby’s activity center.”
“She’s basically a smiling potato. She just discovered her toes last week. She won’t need a gym for, like, a year.”
“If you want it built properly, it requires extensive planning. ”
“Fine, you beautiful control maniac. Build away. But when I get slapped with a parking violation, you’ll be chasing down all the paperwork.”
“Agreed.”