Epilogue
VIOLA
Three years later
The kitchen in our new home in the South of France is breathtaking. I’ll never get used to how beautiful it is. Even after all these years, I still catch myself thinking, oh you lucky bitch. How did you get so lucky?
Sunlight pours through the wide-open windows, warm and golden, carrying the sweet scent of ripening grapes from the vineyard that stretches out for acres beyond the house.
The vines roll across the hills in neat, endless rows, their leaves a deep, vibrant green that shimmers in the breeze.
I stand at the long marble counter, my hands still dusted with cinnamon, arranging a beautiful platter I’ve just finished.
Fresh bread I baked this morning sits in thick, crusty slices, warm and fragrant, alongside wedges of creamy cheese, thin curls of cured meat, and glossy green olives.
Everything looks abundant, alive, like the life we’ve built here.
The staff move quietly around me, bringing pitchers of chilled sangria and bottles of crisp lemonade for the picnic. They smile at me as they pass, and I return it, still a little amazed that this is my everyday now. No fear. No watching my back. Just this gorgeousness.
I pick up the platter and step outside.
The air is warm and soft against my skin, carrying the faint hum of bees and the distant bird song.
Under the old olive tree at the edge of the garden, Ricci has spread out a blanket for our little picnic.
He’s running around with our son, chasing him in wide, playful circles, the boy’s laughter ringing out bright and clear.
Raymond is so much like his father already, dark hair tousled by the wind, the same intense energy, the same easy joy when he’s free.
My heart swells so fiercely it makes my eyes sting.
I stop for a moment just to watch them, the platter balanced in my hands, the sun warm on my shoulders.
I’m stunned by how beautiful my life has become.
It hits me all at once — the vineyard, the laughter, the man I love chasing our child like nothing else in the world matters. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I want to cry, not from sadness, but from a joy so profound it almost hurts. This is real. This is ours.
Our little boy spots me and lets out a delighted shriek, running straight toward me to slam against my legs.
“Careful,” I caution. “I spent a long time making this platter.”
His small hands clutch the fabric of my dress. He giggles, peeking out at his father with mischievous eyes.
Ricci slows down, his gaze finding mine across the grass.
Something soft and hungry flashes across his face.
He walks over with a leisurely gait. The late afternoon light catches the slight stubble along his jaw.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t speak. He simply cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks, and kisses me.
A deep and slow kiss that steals the breath from my lungs and makes my knees weak.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s savoring every second.
“I have X-rated plans for you,” he whispers.
How naughty.
We settle on the blanket. The sun filters through the leaves above us, dappling the white cloth and our plates.
Ricci compliments everything — the bread I baked, the cheeses bought from the farmers market, the way the olives taste with the sangria.
His voice low and warm, his hand never far from mine.
We eat slowly, feeding each other bites, stealing kisses between sips of juice, the laughter of our son playing nearby wrapping around us.
I look into his eyes across the table, those whiskey depths, and I can’t hold it in any longer.
I wanted to wait until later tonight, to make it special, but now, with the sun on his face and our son’s laughter in the air, I simply can’t.
I turn to our little boy first and call him to me.
He comes and climbs into my lap, and I brush a curl from his forehead.
“What do you think about a little sister to play with?” I ask softly, my voice trembling just a little. “Or a brother? Which would you prefer?”
He thinks about it seriously for a second, then grins. “Boy. I want a boy,” he shouts decisively.
Ricci goes still.
I feel his gaze on me, heavy and searching, but I don’t turn yet. My heart is racing, like a wild flutter in my chest. He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, voice low and teasing.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he whispers, the words tickling my skin. He laughs softly, that deep, rich sound I love so much, but I can hear the tremor underneath it.
I take his hand gently and place it on my stomach, right where our new secret is growing.
For a heartbeat, everything stops.
I almost hear his heart stop.
He’s in disbelief for a long moment, then he jumps up, happiness exploding across his face so bright it makes my own eyes gloss over.
He lifts me straight off the ground, and swings me around in a wide, joyful circle, my laughter mixing with his as the world spins around us.
When he sets me down, his hands frame my face, and he kisses me again, delirious with joy.
“Thank you,” he breathes against my lips, over and over. “Fuck, I love you. You changed my whole life. Thank you.”
I smile through the tears, my fingers threading into his hair. “And you changed mine as well.”
We kiss again, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that feels like coming home and starting over all at once. Our son watches us with wide, curious eyes before running off to chase a butterfly. The vineyard stretches out around us, endless and golden in the late afternoon light.
“Here we will live happily, forever,” he says.
“Yes,” I say simply.
And they lived happily ever after…