Epilogue
NICK
T he flowers are already there when I arrive. Peonies and ranunculus this week. Last week, it was tulips. The week before that, wild roses. They’re always fresh, always delivered on Friday, and are exactly what my sister would’ve picked. I didn’t bring anything. I never do. Because I’m not the one who sends them.
Brody does.
He doesn’t know I know, but I do. I’ve known for a while now. I knew it the second I saw the arrangement that matched the ones she used to buy herself every Friday, like it was her little holiday. My sister didn’t need a reason to buy herself flowers, and she sure as hell didn’t need a man to spoil her. They were a reminder that she deserved pretty things regardless of the situation she was in, regardless of her mood. She called it self-care.
I stand at her grave, with my hands in my pockets, as the silence presses in from all sides of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. She requested to be buried there because she loved the story so damn much. When we were kids, she used to tell me that if she ever died before me, she’d haunt me for life. Right now, I wish she would because I’d love to talk to her just one last time.
Her headstone is simple and elegant, just like her.
EDEN GRACIE BANKS
Let light stay.
She used to sign her emails with that, even her professional business ones. Let light stay.
I never understood it and thought it was soft and sentimental, but now I think maybe it was brave. It means more now that she’s gone than it ever did when she was alive.
I sit on the edge of the stone bench and stare at my sister’s name, letting the quiet stretch on for minutes. No one else is here. Just me and my grief. I miss her every day. My sister was one of my best friends.
“You were always better at seeing people for exactly who they were,” I whisper. “Even when the rest of us didn’t.”
I never told anyone what I knew about her and Brody. Not even Asher. Not because it was some great secret, but because Eden didn’t need or want an audience. And Brody? He never tried to be anything but there for her.
When she died, I told myself I’d do one last thing for her—protect him. I refused to let him ruin his fucking life and made sure he had the space to become whatever version of himself she had seen when she looked at him. It was the version of him the rest of us hadn’t seen yet.
That’s why I helped him. That’s why I’ve kept my mouth shut. That’s why I’m here. Because my sister is still the only person who’s ever made me want to be better.
Brody placed every goddamn petal on this grave and has for five long years.
I exhale and run a hand over my face, wiping away the emotions that creep in around the edges. I’m late for Weston’s party, and I’m sure he’ll call me dramatic and say I was begging for an entrance. Billie will say I’m an attention-seeking man-whore while Carlee makes note.
Let them.
They can have a fancy party because, right now, I’m taking this moment. Right now, I’m not Nicolas Banks, ex-hockey player, golden boy, or notorious screwup. I’m just a big brother who cares about and loves my family deeply, even in death. And that’s enough.
* * *
By the time I arrive at Weston’s penthouse, everyone’s already a drink ahead and half a scandal deep. Billie’s at the far end of the room, arguing with a man in a linen suit about the ethics of themed weddings. Harper is tucked under Brody’s arm like she’s never known anything but peace, and Weston’s making the rounds like he owns the floor—because he does. Easton and Lexi have their hands full, and I don’t expect to see them out and about for a while.
I enter, just enough to be seen by everyone, then stop. I like grand entrances. They make people nervous, but not me. I’m immune.
Carlee glances up from her phone the second I cross the threshold, eyes narrowing like she’s caught a headline forming in real time.
“Tardy,” Carlee calls out with a simple shake of her head, but she’s grinning.
“Tragic,” I reply. “Did you miss me or just my ability to fix the vibe?”
She doesn’t answer. Just smiles that quiet, terrifying smile that says I know more than you think. I’m not too quick to dismiss it.
Billie sees me and immediately narrows her eyes when I’m close to them.
“You’re late,” she says as I join the group.
“Was lighting a candle,” I tell her. “For my sins.”
Weston raises his glass. “That’s rich, coming from a man who hasn’t repented since … well, ever.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t ruin my growth arc,” I reply.
Harper walks over and arches a brow. “You good, stepbro?”
“Yuck. No more stepbro.” I shake my head. “But I’m better than good,” I tell her.
It’s not a lie because somewhere out there is a woman who knows exactly what I sound like when I stop pretending. A woman who, if she were here right now, would see straight through me and my bullshit.
I snatch a drink from a tray, and I excuse myself, making rounds with different groups because that’s what I do. I’m a social butterfly, and I smile here, laugh there, dodge three loaded conversations and one not-so-subtle proposition involving a tech heiress and a rooftop in Ibiza.
Billie corners me near the bar, wineglass in hand. She gives me a look that could fillet someone if she focused. “Where have you been?”
I smirk. “Out of town. Needed a break.”
“From what? Attention?”
I sip my drink. “From expectations.”
She narrows her eyes. “You found someone, didn’t you?”
I offer her my best poker face. “Define found .”
She reads people like contracts. Every pause, every flicker, every deflection is something she studies. I give her nothing, and still, she looks like she’s won.
“You’re transparent,” she tells me.
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
She scoffs. “God help us all.”
I leave her with that and move back into the flow of the party. There’s chatter about the triplets, Harper’s ring, Brody’s “domesticated” era, and a newly launched resort collaboration that I may or may not be casually invested in.
My phone buzzes, and I slide it from my pocket. I glance at the text message.
Unknown
Thinking about you.
I don’t reply—I never do—not because I don’t want to, but because I shouldn’t. The smiley face at the end tells me exactly who it is. I lock the screen and slip the phone back into my pocket. This, whatever it is, started a while ago. I haven’t figured out how to stop thinking about her even though I have a strict policy of only hookups, but she doesn’t play by the rules.
Across the room, Brody’s watching me like he knows my secrets. Like he’s waiting for me to confess things I don’t want to admit to myself.
I raise my glass in his direction, giving him a head nod.
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.
Seconds later, my phone buzzes again, and it’s a text message from Brody, but it comes with a link.
It takes me to the website where the blinds are posted.
Blind Item #237
The ex-hockey player and golden boy turned billionaire marketer baddie has been dodging the spotlight and the one woman he’s trying to keep secret.
I read it a few times, feeling like my phone might burn through my hand. My mind wanders back to a few months ago, and memories of her flood my mind. I push them away, not getting lost in my thoughts. Not here. Not now.
When I glance up, I realize I’m in the same room, with the same voices, and have the same damn spotlight on me that’s always chasing me. No one knows I just got blasted by a blind item, except for Brody Calloway.
As he watches me, I plaster a cocky-as-fuck smirk on my face, trying to mentally prepare myself to be the talk of the gossip magazines again. Fuck.