Epilogue
DAMIAN
One year later.
Flour dusts Dusty's cheek as she pipes delicate rosettes onto petit fours, her tongue peeking between her lips in concentration. The afternoon sun catches the honey-blonde strands escaping her messy bun, transforming them into spun gold.
I shift Jane higher against my chest, her tiny fist curling against the wolf tattoo on my forearm. Three months old and already wrapped around my finger—just like her mother.
"What do you think, daddy?" Dusty glances up, hazel eyes bright with creative fire. "Too much lavender in the buttercream?"
"Perfect." I trace Janes soft cheek with my thumb. "Everything you make is perfect, little girl."
She beams, returning to her work with renewed enthusiasm.
The elegant twist of her wrist as she decorates speaks to months of culinary training, nothing like the desperate street kid who climbed through my window more than a year ago.
That girl wore oversized hoodies and flinched at loud noises.
This woman wears fitted designer dresses that showcase the curves pregnancy left behind—fuller breasts, softer hips, a body made for nurturing our daughter.
Hard to reconcile them as the same person sometimes.
But then she nibbles her lower lip, wrestling with some pastry crisis only she can see, and I recognize my Dusty instantly. Still earnest, still determined to prove herself worthy of the life I've given her.
As if she doesn't give me infinitely more than I could ever provide.
Jane squirms, making those pre-cry whimpers that mean she's hungry. Right on schedule.
"Baby needs you."
Dusty's face softens, abandoning her piping bag without hesitation. She washes her hands quickly, drying them on her apron as she crosses to us. The way she reaches for Jane, cradling our daughter against her chest with practiced ease, stirs something primal in my gut.
Mine. Both of them, completely mine.
"There's my sweet girl." She settles into the armchair I positioned in the kitchen specifically for this, unbuttoning her dress to reveal a swollen breast. Jane latches immediately, greedy little thing.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, drinking in the sight of my little girl nursing our child surrounded by her culinary creations.
"The contractor called. Construction starts next week on your shop."
Her eyes meet mine, shimmering with unshed tears.
"Really? We're really doing this?"
"Already done, little girl. You're getting everything you dreamed of."
"It's all thanks to my daddy." She strokes Jane's downy hair, voice thick with emotion. "I'd still be stealing from houses if you hadn't?—"
"Stop." I push off the counter, crossing to kneel beside the chair. "You think I made you talented? Gave you the discipline to wake up at dawn practicing tempering chocolate until your hands cramped? You did that, Dusty. Every single achievement is yours."
"But the money?—"
"Means nothing without your skill backing it up.
" I trace the curve of her jaw, tilting her face toward mine.
"You could've taken the easy path. Let me spoil you, keep you locked in this house like some pretty doll.
Instead, you fought for your dreams, juggled pregnancy and pastry school, turned yourself into one of the most promising young chefs in Brooklyn. "
Her lips part, protest forming, but I silence it with a kiss.
"I gave you opportunity. You gave me everything else."
Jane's suckling slows, her tiny body going boneless against Dusty's chest. Milk-drunk and satisfied, just like her father tends to be after tasting her mother.
"She's done." Dusty adjusts her dress, buttoning it with one hand while supporting our daughter with the other.
I lift Jane carefully, her warm weight settling against my shoulder as I carry her to the nursery adjacent to the kitchen.
Another modification I insisted on—my little girl needs to pursue her passion without being separated from our child.
The crib sits beneath a mobile of dancing pastries I commissioned from a local artist, whimsical cream puffs and eclairs spinning slowly in the air current.
Jane doesn't stir as I lay her down, tucking the blanket around her sleeping form.
Back in the kitchen, Dusty's returned to her petit fours, but her movements lack their earlier confidence. She's nibbling her lip again, worrying at some invisible problem.
Time to fix that.
The ring box sits heavy in my pocket, exactly where it's been for the past month. Waiting for the perfect moment. Turns out there's no such thing—just moments you choose to make perfect.
"Dusty."
She turns, piping bag forgotten.
I drop to one knee, pulling the box free. Her hand flies to her mouth, hazel eyes going wide.
"We've done everything backward. Baby before marriage, living together before dating properly. But I don't give a fuck about proper, little girl. I care about making you mine in every way that matters."
The ring catches the afternoon light as I open the box—three carats of flawless diamond surrounded by smaller stones that sparkle like the tears now streaming down her cheeks.
"You've given me a daughter. A home that feels warm instead of empty.
A reason to leave the office before midnight because I know you're here, creating magic with flour and sugar.
" I swallow past the thickness in my throat.
"Let me give you my name. Make this permanent.
Take our relationship to the next level where it belongs. "
"Damian..." She's trembling, flour-dusted hands pressed against her sternum.
"Say yes. Become my wife. Let me spoil you and protect you and breed you full of more babies for the rest of our lives."
She crashes into me, nearly knocking us both over, peppering my face with kisses that taste like buttercream and salt.
"Yes, yes, yes, daddy. Always yes."