Epilogue
Carrie
Three months later, the Donnelly estate looks different in summer.
The last time I was here, it was for the cocktail party, the night Diana dumped wine down my white dress, the night Tom defended me in front of everyone, the night everything broke open.
Now the gardens are in full bloom, roses and hydrangeas spilling over the stone walls, and the house is decorated for a wedding that isn’t mine.
Tom’s cousin Margaret is getting married today. A Donnelly wedding, complete with a string quartet and enough champagne to fill a swimming pool. The first time Tom and I will appear publicly as a real couple. The first time the family will see us together since Ulises’s arrest.
I smooth my hands over my dress, a soft green silk that accommodates my growing belly, and try to breathe through the anxiety. The scan last month told us she’s a girl, and I keep catching myself with one hand on the bump, trying out names.
“You okay?” Tom appears beside me, his hand warm on my lower back. The burns on his arm have healed into pale scars that he covers with long sleeves, though he’s told me he doesn’t mind them anymore. “Battle wounds,” he calls them. “Proof that I’d walk through fire for you.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’ve faced worse than a room full of snobby rich people.”
“Have I? Because snobby rich people can be vicious.”
He laughs and pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my temple. “They can try. But you’re with me now. And anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me personally.”
We walk into the reception together.
The ballroom is stunning, crystal chandeliers, white flowers everywhere, guests in designer gowns and tailored suits. Heads turn as we enter. Whispers follow us across the room.
I can guess what they’re saying. That’s her. The one who faked amnesia. The one who stole Tom from his brother. The one who’s carrying his child.
Let them talk. I’m done hiding.
Tom steers us toward a quiet corner near the bar, his hand never leaving my back. A waiter offers champagne; I decline with a gesture toward my belly, and Tom asks for sparkling water instead.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease.
“I’m not drinking if you can’t drink. Solidarity.”
“That’s going to be a long pregnancy.”
“We’re halfway there.” He grins. “I can manage.”
The music shifts, the string quartet sliding into a slower, more romantic piece. Couples drift toward the dance floor. Tom extends his hand.
“May I?”
“Your arm.”
“Is fine. Better than fine.” He flexes it experimentally. “Physical therapy is working. I can almost grip things without wanting to scream.”
“Romantic.”
“I try.”
I take his hand, and he leads me onto the dance floor. His good arm wraps around my waist, careful of the bump, and we sway together to the music. For a moment, everything else falls away, the whispers, the stares, the weight of the past three months.
It’s just us.
“I talked to Reyes this morning,” Tom murmurs against my ear. “Ulises took the plea deal. Arson, kidnapping, assault. He’s looking at twelve to fifteen years.”
I close my eyes. “Good.”
“Martha’s still in Seattle. My grandmother says she’s working at a coffee shop. Living in a studio apartment. Apparently she calls your parents every week, but they don’t pick up.”
“Also good.”
“You don’t feel sorry for her?”
“No.” The word comes out harder than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “She made her choices. She gets to live with them.”
Tom nods. We keep dancing.
The song ends. Another begins. We don’t stop.
“Excuse me.”
The voice cuts through our bubble, sharp and cold. I turn to find Diana Ashworth standing behind us, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her red lips curved in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Diana.” Tom’s voice is flat. Warning.
“I just wanted to offer my congratulations.” Her eyes flick to my belly, and an ugly look crosses her face. “Though I must say, some of us are surprised you’d let yourself be trapped like this, Tom. I mean, we all know what she is.”
“And what is that?”
“A fortune hunter. A schemer. A woman who faked amnesia to escape one brother and latched onto another.” Diana’s smile widens. “Some people are saying she planned this whole thing from the beginning. Got herself pregnant to secure her position.”
“Diana.” Tom’s voice drops dangerously low. “Walk away.”
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
“Then let me say what I’m thinking.” Tom steps forward, his body blocking mine, his voice rising loud enough to carry across the room. “This woman is going to be my wife. She’s carrying my child. Disrespect her one more time, in public or in private, and you’re out of this family. Permanently.”
The room has gone silent.
Diana’s face flushes red. “Tom, really, there’s no need to.”
“Permanently.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I don’t care how long your family has known mine. I don’t care about your money or your connections or your opinions. You will treat her with respect, or you will leave. Those are your options.”
Diana stares at him. Then at me. Then, without another word, she turns and walks away, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
The whispers start up again, but they’re different now. Surprised. Maybe a little impressed.
I tug at Tom’s sleeve. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.” He turns to face me, his eyes soft. “I told you. You’re under my protection now. That means something.”
“It means you’re going to make enemies.”
“I already have enemies. At least now they know where I stand.”
A new voice cuts in, older, sharper, familiar.
“Well said.”
Eleanor Donnelly approaches us, leaning on her cane but moving with the same steel-spined determination I remember from the hospital. She’s wearing black silk and diamonds, and her eyes are bright with approval.
“Grandmother.” Tom bends to kiss her cheek. “I hope we haven’t caused a scene.”
“You absolutely caused a scene. Diana needed taking down a peg.” Eleanor turns to me, and her expression softens, just slightly. “The right brother finally won.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve known since Tom was a boy that he was the better of my two grandsons. Ulises had his father’s charm, but he had his cruelty too. Tom...” She looks at him with what can only be pride. “Tom has his mother’s heart.”
“Grandmother.”
“Hush. I’m not finished.” Eleanor reaches out and takes my hand in her papery grip. “Welcome to the family, my dear. Properly, this time. Not as Ulises’s wife. As Tom’s partner. As the mother of my great-grandchild.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll name the baby something dignified. None of this modern nonsense.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Something meaningful.”
I look at Tom. He looks at me. And I know exactly what we’re going to call her.
“Hope,” I say. “We’re naming her Hope.”
For once the sharpness goes out of Eleanor’s face. She reaches over and covers my hand with hers, pleased in a way she would never say out loud.
“Hope.” She tests the word. “Yes. I think that will do nicely.”
***
That night, after the wedding, Tom takes me to the garden.
The same grounds where it all broke open three months ago, before the fire, before the kidnapping, before everything fell apart and came back together again. The roses are in full bloom, their scent heavy in the night air, and the moon hangs low and full above us.
“Close your eyes,” Tom says.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I close my eyes. I feel him take my hand, feel him lower himself, and when I open my eyes again, he’s on one knee in front of me.
“Tom.”
“I already asked you once. In an ambulance. Covered in blood.” He laughs softly. “This time, I wanted to do it right.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
One corner of it is charred black, the fabric burned away where the flames got too close.
“This is what I went back for,” he says quietly.
“That night. While the cabin burned. I’d been carrying it around for weeks, waiting for the right moment, and when the smoke woke me the only thought in my head was that I would not let him take this too.
” He opens the box. Inside is a ring, simple and elegant, a single diamond that catches the moonlight.
“I almost died for it. Turns out it was worth every second.”
“Carrie Donnelly.” His voice is steady, but I can see his hands shaking. “Will you marry me?”
“You already know the answer.”
“I want to hear it again. Properly.”
I drop to my knees in front of him, taking his face in my hands.
“Yes.” I kiss him. “Yes.” Again. “A thousand times yes.”
He slides the ring onto my finger, it fits perfectly, measured to my finger while I slept, and then he’s pulling me close, holding me tight, and I’m laughing and crying at the same time.
“I love you,” he whispers against my lips.
“I love you too.”
We stay there in the garden for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the roses blooming around us and the future spreading out before us, a promise.
***
Later, after the last of the wedding guests have gone and the big house finally goes quiet, Tom takes me up to the guest room at the end of the hall.
He reaches for the lamp. I catch his hand.
“Leave it on.” I want to see him. All of him, including the parts he still tries to keep covered. “Take the shirt off.”
He hesitates. He always hesitates here. Three months of healing and he still flinches when the long sleeves come off, still angles the scarred arm away on instinct, the way I used to turn my soft stomach from the light.
I know that flinch. I lived inside it for years.
So I do for him what he did for me on a different night, in a smaller bed, in a cabin that no longer exists. I take his wrist, careful, and I turn the scarred arm toward the lamp instead of away from it.
“Don’t hide from me,” I say.
“Carrie.”