Epilogue
Farley- One Year Later
The party after the release of The Fire Beneath the Frost was exactly as excessive as I’d expected.
Crystal chandeliers. A string quartet. Waiters circulated with champagne and tiny, architecturally improbable appetizers. The type of Hollywood party that would have made me break out in hives a year ago.
Tonight, I was almost enjoying myself.
“You’re smiling,” Samuel said, appearing at my elbow with two glasses of champagne. “In public. At a party. Should I be concerned?”
“I’m practicing.” I accepted the champagne and took a sip. “Apparently, I’ll need to do a lot of smiling when they drag us to awards shows.”
“If they drag us to awards shows.” But Samuel was grinning, with an irrepressible joy he’d been radiating for months. “The Oscar buzz is just buzz. It might not mean anything.”
“Variety called your performance ‘a revelation.’ The Hollywood Reporter said you ‘brought devastating authenticity to a role that demanded everything.’ That’s not just buzz.”
“You memorized the reviews.”
“I may have read them several times,” I shrugged. “I’m proud of you. Sue me.”
Samuel’s expression softened into something that still made my chest ache, even after a year of seeing it directed at me. “Have I mentioned lately that I love you?”
“This morning. And last night. And approximately forty-seven times yesterday.”
“Sounds about right.”
He leaned in to kiss me, and I let him, right there in the middle of the party with half of Hollywood watching. A year ago, I would have flinched. Would have worried about the cameras, the gossip, the endless public scrutiny.
Now? Now I just kissed my boyfriend and enjoyed the way he tasted like champagne and happiness.
“Get a room,” someone called, and I turned to find Jay Hansen—Samuel’s new agent, and a vast improvement over Sabrina—grinning at us. “Or at least get a corner. You’re making the single people jealous.”
“We’re celebrating,” Samuel said. “Farley just closed a deal writing for Paramount. And we’ve been together for exactly one year today.”
Jay raised his eyebrows. “Anniversary? Why didn’t you say so? I would have sent flowers.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “The last thing we need is more flowers. Our house looks like a botanical garden.”
“That’s because your boyfriend is incapable of walking past a florist without buying you roses.”
“They remind me of Virginia,” Samuel said, completely unrepentant. “And that cabin. And the first time I realized I was in trouble.”
“You were in trouble the moment I caught you wearing that mustache,” I pointed out.
“The mustache was iconic. I stand by the mustache.”
“The mustache was unhinged.”
“And yet you fell in love with me, anyway.”
“In spite of the mustache. Not because of it.”
Jay looked between us with the expression of a man who had heard this argument before and knew better than to get involved. “I’m going to go... anywhere else. Congratulations on the anniversary. Try not to scandalize too many people.”
He disappeared into the crowd, and Samuel turned back to me, his hand finding mine.
“One year,” he said. “Can you believe it?”
“Some days, no.” I looked around the room—at the glittering chandeliers, the famous faces, the world I’d somehow become a part of. “A year ago, I was hiding in the mountains, convinced my life was over.”
“And now?”
“Now I live in Hollywood with a movie star and a cat who thinks she’s responsible for all of it.”
“She is responsible for all of it.” Samuel laughed. “Without Purrsephone, we never would have met.”
“Without Purrsephone, I never would have had dead mice on my doorstep.”
“Gifts. They are gifts.”
“They are health hazards.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Speaking of Purrsephone—who was currently at home, ruling our house with an iron paw and probably plotting something nefarious—my phone buzzed with a notification. I pulled it out and found a text from our personal assistant Leslie, complete with a photo.
The image showed Purrsephone curled up on our couch, wearing a tiny party hat, looking deeply offended by its existence. The caption read: She knows something important is happening. She’s not happy about being excluded. Happy anniversary, boys.
I showed Samuel, and he burst out laughing.
“God, I love that cat.”
“You love that cat more than you love me.”
“Impossible.” He pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. “But she’s a close second.”
Across the room, the director clinked a glass and called for everyone’s attention. There would be speeches soon. Toasts. Probably tears, knowing this crowd.
But for this moment, I just stood there with Samuel’s arm around me, looking at a photo of our ridiculous cat in a party hat, feeling something I’d spent most of my life convinced I’d never find.
Content. Loved. Home.
“Hey,” Samuel whispered. “You know what I was thinking about earlier?”
“Hmm?”
“That list. The one you won’t let me see.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “The naughty list.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “That’s private.”
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “I was wondering... have we crossed everything off yet?”
“Most things.”
“Most?” His eyebrows rose. “There are still a few items remaining?”
“One or two.” I smiled, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been saving them for a special occasion.”
“Like an anniversary?”
“Exactly like an anniversary.”
Samuel’s grip on my waist tightened. “How long do we have to stay at this party?”
“At least through the speeches. Possibly the toasts.”
“And after that?”
I turned to face him fully, letting him see everything I was feeling. The love and desire. The certainty that whatever came next, we’d face it together.
“After that,” I said, “we go home, apologize to Purrsephone for leaving her with Leslie, and I show you exactly what’s left on that list.”
Samuel’s smile was everything. “Best anniversary ever.”
“It’s only the first one.”
“First of many.” He kissed me again, soft and sweet and full of promise. “First of many.”
The director launched into a speech about the magic of cinema, and the bonds forged on set. I half-listened, leaning into Samuel’s warmth, thinking about everything that had brought us here.
A cat with mismatched eyes and a talent for meddling. A cabin in the mountains, and a blizzard that knocked a tree through a roof. Viral videos. And a declaration of love in front of hundreds of cameras.
And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, I’d found the thing I’d stopped believing existed.
A happy ending.
Writing this story was so much fun! If you loved it, please leave a review.
Did you know that there is an actual story called The Fire Beneath The Frost?
It’s quite good, well, that’s what my readers tell me.
It’s the love story of Petyr and Dimitri, and takes place at the end of the USSR. It’s sexy, intense, and guaranteed to pull at least a tear of two out of your eyes. Here’s an excerpt for you to enjoy.
I held out my hand in the dark. The flickering credits lit Dimitri’s face in pulses—white, then shadow, then white again. He stared at my open palm like it might bite him.
I said nothing. I didn’t need to. He understood what I was offering. Not just help from the creaky velvet seat, but something else. A question I couldn’t speak aloud.
After a long second—two, maybe three—Dimitri slid his hand into mine. His skin was warm. Warmer than I expected, and dry like paper in winter. I tightened my grip and lifted him to his feet.
And then I let go.
We shuffled down the narrow aisle with the other filmgoers, coats rustling like dry leaves, boots scraping the cracked tile floor. I kept my hands jammed in my coat pockets, fingers still tingling from that brief, stupid, beautiful contact.
Outside, the cold wrapped around us like a punishment. The night air smelled like burnt coal and wet stone. My breath came out in ghosts. I couldn’t look at Dimitri. Not directly. Not yet.
The streets were mostly empty—too late for commuters, too early for the drunks. A trolley clattered past on the far side of the square, its windows steamed up, casting yellow light like a terrible memory.
I should’ve left it there. Should’ve said goodnight, gone home to a mug of watery tea, and tried to pretend that a man like Dimitri never would have taken my hand in the dark. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw in the restroom earlier.
He was leaning against the cracked porcelain sink, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sergei. One of the old guard from Sanctuary. He nodded when he saw me and said nothing—but I knew what that meant.
“Is it still there?” I asked him casually, like I was asking about the price of eggs.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, eyes sharp. Then: “No. Moved last week. Same password. Bathhouse on Kirochnaya, three blocks from here.”
I barely had time to thank him before he stubbed out the cigarette on the sink and vanished like smoke.
And now here I was, walking with Dimitri, who might ruin everything.
If I was wrong—if I’d imagined the way he looked at me, the way he sat just a little too close in the cinema—then this was suicide.
If I was wrong, he could report me. One anonymous phone call to the wrong party official and I’d disappear like that cigarette smoke. Not just me, either. Every man at Sanctuary, every man who ever trusted me.
I had Vera, thank God. She could say all the right things. She could cry on cue. Our neighbors loved her. She’d never crack.
But if Dimitri ever found out that she and I were fake—just a pair of ghosts in a frame—then I’d be out of alibis. And Vera… she didn’t deserve to go down with me.
I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell him. If this night led to anything—if it became a story instead of a mistake—I’d tell him Vera didn’t know a thing. I’d lie through my teeth to keep her safe.
We walked in silence. Our boots crunched on the old frost. The bathhouse loomed just a couple of blocks ahead, abandoned by the city but reborn by us. Its windows were dark. Always dark.