Epilogue
Two Years Later
Damien
I’ve never considered myself to be a particularly vengeful man.
Yes, there are people in my past who have wronged me, and yes, in an ideal world, I would like for them to see some consequences for their actions.
Yet, with one notable, misguided exception, I’ve never gone out of my way to personally facilitate justice being served.
I’ve always been of the opinion that assholes will typically continue to behave like assholes until they inevitably piss off someone who is bigger, meaner, and more vengeful than they are.
I hadn’t realized that anyone can become that bigger, meaner, more vengeful asshole under the right circumstances. Unfortunately for Lord Albert Porter, for me, it seems those circumstances are met by anyone who hurts my wife.
It’s been well over two years since we left Thornhurst, and in that time, neither of us has had any contact with the Porters, except through Blair’s attorneys.
The matter of her trust fund and shares in Porter Capital was settled very quickly.
Presumably concerned about this turning into a court battle, her father agreed to all her terms, on the condition that Blair had to sign an NDA.
Even on his way out of her life, it seemed Albert couldn’t help but provide one last reminder that he valued his reputation over his daughter.
She’d signed anyway, eager to begin living her new life—our new life—and never looked back.
After Thornhurst, we moved into my house in Wyngate, where Ben lured me back to the palace with a position as his domestic security advisor. Meanwhile, Blair committed herself to a skill she’d mastered a long time ago—spending a lot of money.
Now, fortunately, it’s on things more substantial than designer clothes or handbags.
Her very first stop, once the legal formalities with her trust had been settled, was the shelter she’d visited with her family months ago as one of her father’s campaign stops. Except my wife didn’t just talk about how important it was to help them, she actually did it.
The place is unrecognizable now, clean, safe, and well-staffed. Still not satisfied, however, Blair then roped Zelda into it. In no time, the two of them had dozens of businesses signed up to provide paid internships and on-the-job training for the shelter’s single mothers.
As if I needed further reason to be madly in love with her.
While the wounds left by her family are painful from time to time, Blair has moved on with her life. She’s found her place in the world, surrounded by people who adore her, becoming a devoted wife, friend, sister-in-law, aunt, and soon, mother.
Our first child, a boy, is due in six weeks, and this fact is undoubtedly responsible for my newly discovered bigger, meaner, more vengeful side.
Thankfully, my wife is still unaware, and I’m determined to keep it that way. After all she’s gone through to bring our son into the world, she deserves a surprise.
“Have you settled on a name yet?” asks Zelda from her place across the table from us, offering Blair a sympathetic smile. In her arms, my nephew, Rowan, is sleeping peacefully.
Beside me, Blair shifts uncomfortably in her seat, pressing her hand to the side of her very swollen belly. She wrinkles her nose at the question. “No, but he’s going to be called something embarrassing if he doesn’t stop kicking me like this.”
It’s Friday afternoon, and we’re seated beneath an awning in the rose garden behind Ashwell Palace, taking advantage of the first day warm enough to eat outdoors, and watching Ben chase his squealing daughter through the shrubbery.
Ordinarily, I would be taking the heat off for him a bit, but lately I’ve been reluctant to let my wife out of my sight unless absolutely necessary.
Zelda considers. “You could call him Mallory? Mallory Mallory? That’s awful, he would almost certainly get teased.”
“Pringlefritz?” suggests Blair, as, with another wince, she rubs her side in the place our son has obviously decided to use for target practice.
“Snoorlock?”
“Fiddlebum?”
“Turnip?”
I zone out as the two continue to go back and forth, proposing increasingly ridiculous baby names, and lift my wrist to check my watch for about the fifth time in the past half hour.
It’s nearly time, and after looking forward to this for weeks, I feel like a kid on Christmas morning.
Except, instead of the remote-controlled car I asked for when I was nine, I’m getting the satisfaction of finally besting my father-in-law.
I doubt Lord Porter failed to make the connection when I abruptly resigned my position as Thornhurst’s head of security, and his daughter vanished from the premises. Whether he knows I married her, or that my son will be his first grandchild, is unclear.
At the sound of giggles, I look around, grinning at the sight of Ben approaching the table—flushed and clearly winded—with Alice thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Ready?” he asks casually as he meets my gaze, and I get the sense he’s avoiding looking at Zelda or Blair directly, as if they’ll pick up on our subterfuge if he makes eye contact.
While not quite as invested as I am, Ben has heard plenty about Lord Porter and must be similarly looking forward to what is about to occur.
He seems to have grown very fond of his sister-in-law over the past several years, presumably warmed by her unconditional love of his children, and the creative nicknames she conjures up when annoyed with me.
“Where are you going?” asks Blair, frowning as I stand up.
I’m saved from having to respond. Upon hearing the voice of her very favorite person, Alice squeals, squirming until her father sets her on her own two feet, and rushes over to squeeze onto her aunt’s lap.
“We’ll be back,” Ben assures our wives, “just a quick meeting.” And, before either of them can question this further, we’re striding back through the gardens and toward the palace, side by side.
“I have to say, Dam,” he tells me as a footman opens the garden door, and we enter the palace’s east corridor.
“Exacting revenge against her father is a strange gift to commemorate the birth of your first child.”
“She’s going to love it.”
A quick glance confirms my brother is unconvinced. “I got Zelda a very expensive handbag after she had Rowan. Are you quite sure Blair wouldn’t like one of those?”
I can’t help but laugh, clapping Ben on the shoulder. “Your wife is into sunshine and rainbows and—Christ, I don’t know—fluffy kittens? You know I love Zelda, but the woman is completely devoid of bloodlust. I bet she has never once dropped mud down your pants.”
“Wait, Blair dropped—”
We make the turn toward Ben’s study and the palace’s official meeting rooms, and I wave this question away impatiently. “The point being, Blair can buy her own very expensive handbags. Do you know what she can’t buy?”
My brother pauses. “Revenge against her father?”
“Correct.”
As we pass one of the palace’s smaller, secondary lobbies, a familiar voice calls after us. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
Slowing my pace, I grin at Leo, who is strolling toward us in a tweed vest, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Thanks for making the trip.”
“You’re in on it, too?” Ben demands incredulously, obviously still wrapping his head around this.
Leo hums in confirmation, falling into step beside us. “I’m an advisor, too. Technically.”
With an impatient scoff, Ben shakes his head. “Yeah? How many King’s Council meetings have you attended this year—no, actually—in the past decade?”
“I thought my participation would be a nice gesture,” Leo tells him, sidestepping the question. “Dam’s gone to all this trouble to arrange a very considerate gift for his wife—”
“I got Zelda a handbag, and she loved it.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did,” Leo agrees patiently, “but Blair is rather more—ah—spirited than Zelda, isn’t she? It’s good that Dam is giving her a present that is appropriate to her taste. Besides, the asshole deserves what’s coming to him, doesn’t he?”
Ben, who has obviously seen he won’t convince anyone that Blair would like a handbag instead of retribution, leans past me to frown at Leo. “You’ve had a wife for about five minutes, and already you have all the answers?”
I’m saved from enduring more bickering by our arrival at the conference room where the appointment is taking place. Both my brothers fall silent, gazing at the closed wood door. Technically, this began fifteen minutes ago, but our tardiness isn’t an accident.
The old fuck can damn well wait.
“Ready?” asks Ben, casting me a long, sideways glance.
My lips curve. “Ready.” And, without further delay, I step forward to grasp the polished brass handle, leading the way inside.
This room was yet another very deliberate choice to set the stage for today’s proceedings.
Earlier this week, I spent the better part of an hour going into every single meeting space in Ashwell Palace, searching for the least desirable one I could find.
With its unusually uncomfortable wood chairs, proximity to the air conditioner, and a window looking out on the kitchen dumpsters, I thought this particular room sent a clear message: you are not important.
“Good afternoon, Lord Porter,” Ben offers cooly as we file inside, moving to sit in the three chairs across the table from Blair’s father.
He stands hurriedly, inclining his head respectfully as we take our seats. “Your Royal Highness. Thank you for your invitation.” As he lifts his face to look at us directly, however, I see his features harden as he realizes who Ben has brought with him.