Epilogue
ZACHARY
I wake before the alarm, sunlight filtering through the curtains and landing directly on Zoey's sleeping face. She's curled against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, her breathing slow and steady. The gold band on my left hand catches the light when I shift to pull her closer.
Six months since I slipped a ring on her finger and asked her to be mine forever. Four months since we actually became husband and wife.
We'd planned the wedding fast—too fast by most people's standards, but I wasn't waiting. Small ceremony at a historic estate overlooking the ocean, just us and an officiant. We'd sent invitations to both sets of parents more out of obligation than expectation. No responses came.
I'd told Zoey we didn't need them there. She'd agreed, but I'd seen the hurt in her eyes every time she glanced at her phone hoping for a message from Carol.
The morning of the ceremony, we'd stood under the floral arch the wedding planner had arranged, the officiant shuffling his notes. Ocean breeze, perfect weather, Zoey in a simple white dress that made her look like an angel. Everything ready.
"We can begin whenever you're ready," the officiant had said.
Zoey had glanced toward the empty seats one last time, her jaw tight. "Let's start."
The officiant had barely spoken the opening words when car doors slammed in the distance.
Zoey's head had whipped around, her hand tightening in mine.
Carol had appeared first, hurrying down the path in heels and a navy dress, mascara already streaking her face.
Raymond followed, stiff in a suit, his expression unreadable.
"Wait—please wait—" Carol had gasped, rushing toward us.
Zoey had frozen, her eyes flooding with tears. Carol had stopped just short of the arch, her hands trembling as she'd looked at her daughter.
"I'm so sorry," Carol had choked out. "I'm so, so sorry, baby. I was wrong. I was awful. Please—please let me be here?—"
Zoey had let go of my hand and run to her mother. They'd collided in a tight embrace, both sobbing, Carol pressing kisses to Zoey's hair while Zoey had clung to her like a child. Raymond had stood awkwardly to the side, his throat working.
We'd continued the ceremony with our parents present. It hadn't been comfortable. It still isn't.
But we're working on it.
Zoey stirs against me, her lashes fluttering. "You're staring again."
"Can't help it. My wife's too beautiful."
She smiles, eyes still closed. "Husband."
I kiss her forehead, my hand sliding down to rest possessively on her hip. "How'd you sleep?"
"Good." She stretches, her body arching against mine. "What time is it?"
"Early. You don't have class until ten."
"Mmm." She burrows closer. "Stay like this a little longer?"
"Anything you want."
She's in her final semester, finishing her degree remotely while working on design projects for my company.
I'd offered her a position three months ago—residential interiors for my luxury developments.
She'd hesitated, worried about nepotism, but her portfolio had spoken for itself. My team had loved her concepts.
She's brilliant. Creative and meticulous. Clients request her specifically now.
It's everything I'd envisioned when I'd first claimed her. Professional partnership. Shared future. Her talent complementing my empire.
And she's mine. Legally, completely, irrevocably mine.
I'm reviewing contracts in my home office when my phone buzzes with a video call. Zoey's face fills the screen, her hair pulled back, wearing one of my old T-shirts.
"Hey," she says, smiling. "Got a minute?"
"For you? Always."
She props her phone against something, giving me a view of her workspace—fabric samples, paint swatches, her laptop open to a design program. "I need your opinion on the Riverside project. The client wants modern farmhouse, but I think we can push them toward contemporary if we soften the edges."
I lean back in my chair, studying the renderings she's showing me. Clean lines, warm wood tones, oversized windows. "Show me the contemporary version."
She switches screens, her design appearing. It's stunning—bold yet inviting, exactly the kind of aesthetic that sells for double the market rate.
"That," I say. "Push for that. They'll resist initially, but once you walk them through the resale value, they'll agree."
"You think?"
"I know. Trust your instinct, baby. You're better at this than you give yourself credit for."
She bites her lip, pleased. "Okay. I'll schedule a meeting with them next week."
"Good girl."
Her cheeks flush slightly at the praise, and I smirk. Even in professional contexts, she responds to me.
"When are you done with classes today?" I ask.
"Three. Why?"
"Because I want you naked in our bed by three-thirty."
"Zach—"
"Three-thirty, Zoey."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. "Fine. I'll see you then."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The call ends, and I return to my contracts, satisfied. She graduates in two months, and then she'll be working full-time with me. Building our empire together. Exactly as it should be.
By evening, my good mood has shifted to tension. Both sets of parents are coming for dinner—the first time since the wedding reception. Zoey has been in the kitchen for an hour, her nervous energy translating into excessive preparation.
I find her checking the roast for the third time, her hands shaking slightly as she closes the oven.
"It's going to be fine," I say, wrapping my arms around her from behind.
"What if it's awkward?"
"It will be awkward. Doesn't matter."
"Zach—"
I turn her to face me, cupping her face. "They're trying. That's what matters. And if anyone makes you uncomfortable, I'll throw them out."
"You can't throw out our parents."
"Watch me."
She laughs despite herself, leaning into my touch. I kiss her, slow and possessive, reminding her exactly who she belongs to. She melts against me, her hands sliding up my chest.
The doorbell interrupts us.
"Fuck," I mutter against her lips.
"Later," she whispers, straightening her dress.
I release her reluctantly and head for the door. Raymond and Carol stand on the porch, Carol holding a bottle of wine, Raymond's expression carefully neutral.
"Come in," I say, stepping aside.
Carol moves past me immediately, searching for Zoey. "Sweetheart?"
Zoey appears from the kitchen, and Carol pulls her into a tight hug. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks, Mom."
Raymond nods at me, his handshake firm but no longer hostile. "Son."
"Raymond."
Dinner starts quietly, the clinking of silverware too loud in the silence. Zoey serves the food, and I watch her hands tremble slightly as she pours wine.
Carol breaks the tension first. "Zoey, your father mentioned you're working on a big project?"
"The Riverside development," Zoey confirms, relief crossing her face. "Luxury condos downtown. I'm handling all the interior design."
"That's wonderful." Carol's pride is genuine. "You always had an eye for beautiful spaces."
"She's the best designer on my team," I add, my hand finding Zoey's under the table.
Raymond clears his throat. "The Riverside project. That's the one near the waterfront?"
"Yes," I confirm.
"Smart location. Property values in that area have tripled in five years."
We discuss business for several minutes, finding common ground in real estate markets and development strategies. It's not comfortable, but it's progress.
Carol compliments the house, and Zoey mentions she's been redesigning several rooms. "I'm working on the library next. Zach has so many books, but the space feels closed off."
"I'd love to see what you've done so far," Carol says warmly.
Zoey lights up, describing her vision, and I watch my stepmother listen attentively, asking thoughtful questions.
Across the table, Carol reaches for Zoey's hand, squeezing gently. No words. Just connection.
Zoey squeezes back, her eyes glistening.
I feel something loosen in my chest. My wife has her mother back. Not perfectly. Not without scars. But they're trying.
The rest of dinner passes with cautious conversation. Plans for holidays. Questions about Zoey's graduation. My father asking about expansion projects. Everyone navigating carefully around the elephant in the room—that Zoey and I were stepsiblings before we were husband and wife.
But no one brings it up. No one fights.
When they leave, the goodbyes are less stiff than the hellos. Carol hugs Zoey for a long moment, whispering something I don't hear. Raymond shakes my hand again, his grip almost friendly.
"Same time next month?" Carol suggests.
Zoey nods. "I'd like that."
After the door closes, she sags against me. "That was exhausting."
"But good."
"Yeah." She looks up at me, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me have this. For not forcing me to choose between you and them."
I tilt her chin up, my thumb brushing her lower lip. "You're my wife. Your happiness matters. If that includes your mother, then I'm not standing in the way."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
We clean up together, loading the dishwasher, putting away leftovers. Domestic and comfortable. I catch her yawning as she wipes down the counter.
"Tired?"
"A little. It's been a long day."
I take the towel from her hands, tossing it aside, and pull her close. "Bed."
"I need to finish?—"
"Bed, Zoey."
She doesn't argue, letting me guide her upstairs. In our bedroom, I undress her slowly, my hands possessive on her skin. She's mine. My wife. The ring on her finger proves it.
I lay her on the bed, following her down, and kiss her deeply. She responds immediately, her body arching into mine, soft and willing.
"Zach—"
"Need you," I murmur against her neck, my hand sliding between her thighs. She's already wet, her body knowing what's coming.
I spread her legs wider, positioning myself, and slide inside her slowly. She gasps, her hands clutching my shoulders as I fill her completely.
"Fuck—so tight?—"
"Ahh—" She moans, her head falling back.
I thrust deeper, claiming her with every stroke, watching her face as pleasure builds. She's beautiful like this—flushed, breathless, mine.
"Say it," I demand, my hand wrapping around her throat gently.
"Yours—I'm yours?—"
"Damn right."
I fuck her harder, her pussy clenching around my cock, pulling me deeper. She's close, her body trembling beneath me, and I reach between us to rub her clit.
"Oh God—Zach—yes?—"
"Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it."
She shatters, crying out, her entire body convulsing as her orgasm tears through her. Her pussy milks me, and I follow seconds later, burying myself deep and filling her with my cum.
"Mine," I growl, riding out the last waves. "My wife."
"Yes—yours—always?—"
I collapse beside her, pulling her against my chest. She's trembling, her breathing ragged, completely spent.
"I love you," she whispers.
"Love you too."
We lie in silence for a while, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest, my hand stroking her hair.
"Two more months until graduation," she says eventually.
"Then you're working full-time with me."
"Yeah." She smiles. "I want to be really established in my career before we think about kids, though."
"That's fine. We have time."
"But you do want them eventually?"
I tighten my hold on her. "Fuck yes. Want to see you pregnant with my baby. Want a family with you. But when you're ready."
"Okay." She kisses my chest. "I want that too. Just not yet."
"Whenever you want, baby."
She falls asleep against me, her breathing evening out, her body relaxed and sated. I stare at the ceiling, my wife in my arms, wedding rings glinting in the dim light.
Six months ago, I put a ring on her finger. Four months ago, I made her my wife. Our parents are slowly accepting us. She's thriving professionally. We're building our future exactly as I'd planned.
And she's mine.
Completely, irrevocably, permanently mine.
I glance down at her sleeping face, possessive satisfaction flooding through me. Some people might still judge us. I don't give a fuck. She chose me. I claimed her. And nothing will ever change that.
My Zoey. My wife. My forever.