Epilogue
Ten years later
Sienna
“Blackjack!”
The safeword rips from my throat, my voice hoarse from laughter, my entire body curling into a ball on the floor as I struggle to catch my breath.
Nathan doesn’t stop. His strong hands find my waist again, fingers relentless as they dig into my ribs, targeting my most ticklish spots.
“This,”
he says in my ear, voice low and amused, “is not how we use safe words.”
“Then stop attacking me!”
I shriek, kicking out and trying to wriggle free.
He’s stronger, faster, far too proud of himself.
He laughs this deep, sinful sound I’ll never tire of, and finally relents, letting me go. I flop onto my back before I glare up at him. His dark eyes gleam with mischief, his mouth curled in that wicked grin. He leans over me, hands on either side of my head.
“Truce?”
I manage to breathe between half-sobs of laughter.
He cocks his head, pretending to think it over.
“Tempting,”
he drawls, dragging a knuckle across my cheek with deceptive gentleness. Then, without warning, he strikes again, his fingers pressing into my sides.
I screech, rolling onto my stomach to shield myself, but it’s useless. We tumble in a tangle of limbs.
“Again, again!”
That tiny, excited voice cuts through the chaos, making Nathan go still.
I’m still breathless as I glance over to see our daughter, Clara, standing a few feet away, clapping her small hands, her curly hair bouncing with every hop.
Nathan’s gaze softens instantly.
Such a pushover.
He sits back on his heels, reaching for her. She darts forward, giggling as she scrambles onto his lap. His arms close around her, warm and protective, and my heart clenches so hard it’s almost painful.
I push myself upright, shoving tangled hair out of my face, watching them with a feeling too big to name.
Ten years. Ten years since I snuck out of this penthouse after a one-night stand. Ten years since we scribbled a fake dating contract on a napkin, forging an impossible bond. Ten years since I unknowingly fell in love with the most stubborn, bossy, maddeningly protective man I’d ever met.
Now, here we are.
Married.
Parents.
Hopelessly, unapologetically in love.
It wasn’t always easy.
God, it wasn’t.
He worked more hours than any sane person should—late-night calls, perpetual flights, big deals on the horizon—and I refused to just wait by the door.
I poured myself into my career, climbing the ladder in marketing until I headed entire campaigns.
We fought hard, learned harder, and found a way to share a kind of love neither of us believed in before.
Seven years into our relationship, and we’d been married for four of them, my career flourishing, his empire unstoppable when I walked into his office one late night, the city lights gleaming outside the window.
I perched on the edge of his desk, right where his laptop and spreadsheets usually claimed all the space, and said quietly, “I think I’m ready for kids.”
I remember how he paused mid-keystroke, brows furrowing in a question, and I smiled, heart pounding. He slid his chair back, stood, and gathered me into his arms without saying a word, his face pressed to my neck.
Then he whispered, “If that’s what you want, we’ll figure it out.”
And we did.
Some moments were rough.
There were nights I needed him to hold me when insecurities whispered old lies, reminding me that I’d once feared never being anyone’s priority.
He reassured me with quiet certainty that I came first, always.
And nights I had to coax him away from his laptop, reminding him to breathe, to exist outside the next deal.
Eventually, he learned that being with me meant living for more than just contracts and expansions.
That’s when we had the best memories of our lives.
The night he proposed on the balcony of our penthouse because it’s where we shared our first real, raw conversation.
His voice shook, but his hands were steady as he promised forever.
Our wedding day where my mother cried, my father eyed Nathan sternly for half an hour, and Harper delivered the most hilariously inappropriate toast known to mankind.
Then there was the moment I told him I was pregnant. He just stared, speechless, before dropping to his knees to rest his forehead against my stomach.
The night our daughter was born, he held my hand through every painful contraction, whispering, “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve got this.”
The look on his face when he held her the first time—pure awe.
I never saw myself here, not ten years ago, not even in my wildest dreams. But life surprises you, and Nathan was the most earth-shattering surprise of all.
“Mommy!”
Our daughter squirms free of Nathan’s grasp and darts toward me, determination shining in her bright blue eyes. “Let’s get Daddy now!”
I smirk, glancing at Nathan. He sprawls on the floor, legs extended, wearing that arrogant expression I fell in love with.
“Oh, really?”
he drawls. “Think you two can take me down?”
I shoot our daughter a conspiratorial look. “You ready?”
She giggles. “Ready.”
We pounce together. Our shrieks and laughter echo off the walls. Nathan pretends to flail, half letting us tackle him, half resisting with that teasing strength. The sound of our daughter’s delighted laughter envelops us, and my chest aches with fullness.
This is it. This is everything.
And I wouldn’t change one second of it.
The End.
Keep reading for chapter one of
If Love Had A Manual - Book two in the Skeptically In Love Series