Epilogue
Lucas
I’m halfway through my second glass of bourbon, watching Damian Kincaid smile like a man who didn’t used to know how.
The bastard actually looks happy. Genuinely happy.
He’s not only married. He’s relaxed and in love.
He’s swaying with Isabelle under a string of golden lights, her head tucked against his chest, the kind of content look on his face I used to think only existed in marketing campaigns.
And yet, here we are.
I take another sip. “Someone should frame that,” I murmur.
“What?” says the voice beside me.
I glance down at Nadine Geraldine, my plus-one for the evening. Not a date. God, no. She’s a fellow consultant I’ve partnered with on a few cross-border deals. Sharp as hell, allergic to commitment, and blessedly uninterested in whatever I’m not offering.
She follows my gaze. “You mean the newlyweds slow dancing like a toothpaste commercial?”
“Exactly that.”
Nadine smirks. “Getting soft on me, Ashford?”
I grin. “I’m sentimental, not suicidal.”
She snorts. “Tell that to your jaw. You’ve been clenching it since the cake cutting.”
“Just admiring the decor.”
She gives me a look. “Sure, and I came for the chicken skewers.”
I unclench my jaw and wrinkle my nose. I’m not uptight because of jealousy. I don’t envy Damian. I respect him, although I would never tell him that. We go way back. We’re friends, although we have gone head-to-head a few times. No grudges between us ever, though. Just some bruised egos that healed. He’s earned whatever this is, though, this new version of himself. He didn’t get it by closing a deal.
He got it by letting go of one.
That’s something I’ve never done. Not even once.
I scan the place—happy faces, soft music, wine-glass clinks and the low hum of laughter. It’s a different kind of power here. Not currency or contracts.
Connection.
That’s the one thing I’ve never managed to negotiate.
I drain the last of my bourbon. “Think anyone would notice if we vanished early?” I ask.
Nadine raises an eyebrow. “You mean skip out on the sparkler send-off and the six-tiered artisanal cake?”
“Exactly.”
She smirks. “You’re the king of exits, Lucas. Make it dramatic.”
I laugh under my breath and stand, straightening my jacket. “That’s what they pay me for.”
But even as I walk out beneath the soft canopy of stars, I glance back once more just for a second.
Damian presses a kiss to Isabelle’s forehead, and she glows.
Maybe I’m sentimental, but I can’t stop myself from wondering what it might feel like to build something that doesn’t end with a signature and a handshake.