Epilogue
Masquerade Balls: Introduced by French settlers, became a hallmark of New Orleans’ Mardi Gras celebrations, blending elegance with mystery.
Masks allowed partygoers to transcend social boundaries, adding an air of intrigue to Carnival season.
Today, these lavish events are still hosted by Mardi Gras krewes, preserving the city’s tradition of opulent revelry.
The last guests clear out just after midnight.
It’s a smaller event than the one a year ago. Twelve people instead of twenty-four. No press. No spectacle. The wine list is tighter, the food quieter, the room less interested in impressing anyone. Exactly the way I wanted it.
I stand near the service station while the staff resets the room, glassware clinking softly as it’s gathered and boxed.
Someone asks me where the extra Burgundy should go.
I tell them to label it and lock it in the cellar.
Another asks if we’re keeping the remaining bottles open for tomorrow’s pairing.
I shake my head and say we’ll rest them instead.
When the questions stop, I realize my shoulders are still relaxed.
That’s new.
I check my phone. Two missed texts from Delphine. One photo from my assistant of tomorrow’s delivery schedule. Nothing urgent, so I slide the phone back into my pocket without answering yet.
Ridge waits near the bar, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass he hasn’t touched in a while. He isn’t hovering. He never does. He knows I’ll come to him when I’m done.
The restaurant manager thanks me again and tells me the clients were already asking about the next tasting. I tell him we’ll talk numbers next week. He nods, satisfied, and heads toward the office.
When the room finally belongs to us again, I cross the floor and stop in front of Ridge.
“Sorry,” I say. “That ran long.”
He shakes his head. “I could watch you all night.”
There’s no edge in it or pressure that my job isn't important. He watched the room the way he always does when I’m in it, not as a guard, but as someone paying attention.
I gesture toward his glass. “You didn’t like the Cabernet?”
“I liked it, a lot,” he says. “This is my third glass.”
I lean in and kiss him. He still makes me tingle all over, just like he did over two years ago when we met.
We step outside together, the door closing softly behind us. The street is quieter than usual for holiday weekend. Halloween isn't until Tuesday, but usually that starts on Friday and carries through.
I hook my arm through his without thinking about it, and he adjusts his stride without comment.
A year ago, I walked home alone from nights like this. I remember the weight of my keys in my hand, the way my phone stayed silent, the certainty that whatever came next would be something I built without him.
That part stayed true.
What changed is that I don’t have to choose between the life I built and the man beside me.
We stop at the corner. He waits while I finish answering Delphine, telling her I’ll call tomorrow, and yes, the pairing went exactly how I hoped. When I tuck my phone away again, Ridge looks at me.
“You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Want to grab something on the way home?”
Home.
The word still lands with weight, but not uncertainty. I nod. “No, I think I want to go home with you. We have this beautiful charcuterie board left over from tonight. I like the sound of that and a glass of wine with my man.”
“I won't argue there,” he agrees.
A year ago, I would have gone home alone after nights like this. I was already building my career then, already learning how to trust my instincts and make decisions without waiting for approval.
What I didn’t expect was that I could keep doing that and still let someone walk beside me.
I moved into Ridge's penthouse across the river in Algiers Point about six months ago. It was a decision we talked through carefully, the same way we handle everything now. He didn’t frame it as safer or better, and I didn’t need him to.
I wanted to live where my life already was, not orbiting it from the edges.
He never wanted me to come here before, for fear that it was exposed and unsafe. Now it's our home, and I'm bringing a little softness to the clean lines and full glass walls overlooking the Mississippi into the city.
I pour us each a small glass from an open bottle I set aside earlier. We eat standing at the counter, tearing bread instead of slicing it, talking about things that don’t need solving.
"There's a wine tour in Tuscany in the spring. It's a three-week intensive of twenty-five vineyards all around. What do you say?"
He considers it without hesitation. “I can probably disappear for ten days.”
“That would be perfect,” I tell him. “I can finish the rest on my own.”
“Send the dates to Clara,” he says. “We’ll make it work.”
That’s how support sounds with him. Practical. Assumed. He doesn’t marvel at what I do or try to protect it. He treats it like it belongs in the same world as his own.
When we move to the sofa, I sit with my feet tucked under me and my back against his chest. He rests his arm around my waist. The city hums beyond the windows, but we are tucked away in the space that’s just ours.
I don’t think about danger or legacy or what comes next.
I think about tomorrow’s deliveries, and about the vineyards I want to visit with Ridge. About how my life finally feels arranged according to my own decisions.
Ridge presses his mouth briefly to my temple, then stills again.
Later, we sit on the sofa, my back against his chest, his arm settled around my waist. Outside, across the river, the city goes on like it always does. A barge horn sounds somewhere in the distance, and Ridge pulls me in tight.
My relationship with my father is still complicated. We see each other. We talk. He hasn’t accepted my relationship with Ridge, and I’m okay with that. That’s progress, even if it isn’t reconciliation yet.
Ridge doesn’t make decisions on my behalf anymore. He trusts me to know what I’m stepping into. I don’t ask him to soften the parts of himself that are essential to who he is.
What we’ve built isn’t fragile or borrowed. It’s a life that holds both of us without asking either to step aside or hide or shield anything.
And for the first time, I don’t wonder what comes next.
I’m already where I want to be.