Epilogue
Bree
Six Months Later...
The zipper on my custom gown is stuck.
Figures.
I’m standing in the bathroom of our luxury hotel suite in Reykjavik, which still feels surreal even after two days here. I’m wrestling with three thousand dollars worth of emerald silk like it owes me money.
The gala starts in forty-five minutes. I’m giving the keynote speech.
And my zipper has apparently chosen defiance.
This is fine.
You’re the Executive Director of a major foundation.
You’ve faced down hostile board members and corporate sabotage.
You can handle a teeny tiny zipper.
I cannot handle the zipper.
“Need help?”
Nico’s voice comes from the doorway, and I catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s wearing a gorgeous tuxedo, the dark fabric cut perfectly across those broad shoulders, his crisp white shirt open at the collar because he hasn’t done-up the bowtie yet.
The scarring along his face just makes him look like him. Sharp and dangerous and roguish in that way that still makes my stomach flutter, even after all these months of waking up next to him. And the tuxedo isn’t helping.
Honestly, Bree.
Get a grip.
You’re married to the man.
“I’m fine,” I lie, still yanking at the zipper.
He crosses the bathroom in three steps. His hands replace mine, warm against my lower back. “You’re murdering the dress.”
“The dress started it, actually,” I insist.
He laughs. Six months ago, getting a genuine laugh out of Nico Rossi was quite the feat. Now he does it all the time.
Usually at my expense, but still.
The zipper slides up smoothly under his fingers.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
His lips brush the back of my neck, just below where my hair is pinned up. “You’re going to be brilliant tonight.”
“I learned from the best,” I counter.
He grins. “You certainly did, Mrs. Rossi.”
I turn in his arms. “Mrs. Dawson-Rossi, thank you very much. We hyphenated. Remember the paperwork nightmare?”
“I remember.” His dark eyes crinkle at the corners. “I also remember our wedding night, which was significantly less nightmarish.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
Right on schedule.
I reach up to straighten his collar. “We have a gala. Donors. Press. Your bowtie isn’t even done.”
“You could do it for me,” he offers.
I chuckle. “I could. But then we’d never leave this bathroom.”
His smile turns wolfish. “I fail to see the problem.”
I push at his chest, which is absolutely useless because it’s like pushing at a very attractive wall. “Nico. Please.”
“Fine.” He catches my hand against his chest, holds it there for a moment. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. “But later...”
“Later,” I agree.
He presses a kiss to my palm and releases me, moving to the mirror to deal with his bowtie. I take a moment to just look at him. At us, reflected side by side in the glass.
Three months married. Six months as Executive Director.
“Stop staring at me and finish getting ready,” Nico says without turning around. “We’re going to be late.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I pout.
“You were,” he insists. “I could feel it.”
“Now that’s just... arrogant.”
“Accurate.” He finishes his bowtie. “Ready?”
I take one last look in the mirror. Custom gown. Hair actually cooperating for once. Makeup that took forty-five minutes but looks natural. Wedding ring catching the light.
You got this, Briana Sutton Dawson-Rossi.
“Ready.”
The gala is held at a stunning venue in Reykjavik with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the darkening sky.
We arrived in Iceland yesterday, and I still can’t believe Nico planned this entire thing.
The Foundation’s first international event, timed perfectly with aurora season.
My dream since I was twelve years old, watching Planet Earth with my parents and swearing I’d see the northern lights someday.
I’d told him that dream during our one night stand, between rounds two and three.
He remembered. Of course he remembered.
He’s helped me obtain all of my dreams, actually. Doing work that matters. Directing a nonprofit. Being loved.
We walk in together, hand in hand, and the flashbulbs start immediately. No hiding. No pretending.
Just us.
Inside, it’s a who’s who of everyone we know.
Dominic and Tatiana are near the bar, their son apparently wreaking havoc somewhere with a nanny.
Dom catches my eye and raises his glass.
Tatiana winks. She pulled me aside earlier today to tell me she’s pregnant again, sworn me to secrecy, and then immediately told me I’m the worst secret-keeper so she’s only giving me two hours before she announces it.
Fair.
Marco Fiore and Jessica are holding court near the hors d’oeuvres, their daughter Ben running circles around them. Jessica catches my eye and gives me that knowing nod. The one that says two women who survived difficult men and somehow made them better. I nod back.
Christopher and Lucy Blackwell are discussing Foundation partnership opportunities with Dashiell, who looks thrilled to have someone else to talk spreadsheets with.
Gideon and Ava King are admiring the venue’s architecture.
Leo and Sabrina Maxwell are attempting to corral their twins while Mia Grace lectures them both about proper gala behavior.
Dr. Helena Vasquez intercepts me near the stage. “Nervous?”
“Terrified,” I admit.
She squeezes my arm. “You’ll be wonderful. You always are.”
I circulate through the crowd, greeting donors, answering questions about our hospital partnerships and prosthetic programs.
I catch Nico watching me from across the room. That look. Still possessive after all this time. Still intense. But different now, too. Proud. Like watching me command this space is his favorite thing in the world.
I blow him a kiss because I’m mature like that.
He pretends to catch it. Even more mature.
Then it’s time for my speech.
I stand at the podium, looking out at the sea of faces. Donors. Partners. Friends. Family. The man I love, watching from the front row with that slight smile that used to be so rare.
“Several months ago,” I begin, “I took a job as an executive secretary thinking it would be temporary admin work while I figured out my life.”
Soft laughter from the audience.
“I met a difficult boss who taught me that challenging people sometimes do it because they’re being challenged themselves. That the best partnerships are built on honesty, even when it’s hard.” I pause. “Especially then.”
I talk about the Foundation’s mission. The patient impact stories that still make me cry. The twelve-year-old who got her first custom prosthetic and wrote Nico a letter telling him she finally felt like herself.
Then I take a breath.
“I’ve also learned that justice delayed isn’t always justice denied. Sometimes it’s justice done right. When you can support all the survivors, not just one, and build systems that protect the vulnerable instead of the powerful, then you know you’re making a difference.”
Standing ovation.
Afterward, Nico finds me on the viewing deck. The sky is finally dark enough, and the first ribbons of green are starting to dance across the horizon.
“Northern lights,” I breathe. “Nico, look.”
He’s not looking at the sky. He’s looking at me.
“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly. “Accidentally meeting me?”
I consider the question honestly. The private lounge at the Tribeca gala I accidentally walked into. The one-night stand that should have stayed anonymous. The mortifying Monday morning. Being invisible while indispensable. The gossip and the scandals and the moments I thought we’d never survive.
But also: the pad thai at midnight. The sticky note wars. The bandaged hand. Late nights when walls came down. His family embracing me like I’d always been there. His growth from bosshole to partner.
I kiss his scarred cheek, that landscape I’ve memorized with my lips and fingertips. “Best mistake I ever made.”
He pulls me close and growls, “Now that’s what I wanted to hear.”
We watch the aurora together, the green and purple light rippling across the Icelandic sky. His arm stays around my shoulders. My head stays against his chest.
We’re two people who found each other by accident and somehow built something real.
Later, in the backseat of the secure car back to our hotel, I rest my head on his shoulder. His thumb strokes my wrist, brushing over my wedding ring.
“I love you,” I whisper into the darkness.
“Love you, too.” His lips press against my temple. “My brilliant, difficult, perfect pain in the ass.”
I smile against his shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”
Best mistake I ever made.