Epilogue
Isla
“You doing okay?”
Dorian’s voice is quiet, pitched for me alone, the low timbre cutting through the hum of movement on the other side of the curtain. My heart answers before I can—kicking hard against my ribs, betraying me.
How like Dorian to be the one checking on me when it’s his name on the banner, his face on every handheld sign. When, in minutes, all eyes will be on him—as they should be. Yet here he is, focusing on me as if the outcome of the night depends not on his speech, but on my steadiness.
I curl my fingers, feeling the cool weight of the opal on my right hand and the sharp brilliance of the pink diamond on my ring finger. About a month ago, I realized I wanted both rings as reminders of everything we fought for, and everything we’ve risked.
With a possessive smile, he slid it back into place. Where it belonged.
The symbols are heavy tonight, and so is the moment .
“Little one?”
I draw a breath. “Yeah.” My response is softer than I intended, and I’m sure he’s barely heard me over the band playing to the audience that’s gathered to celebrate his run for the Senate.
But the truth is, this is complicated. I’m ready for tonight, and yet I’m not. Excited and terrified. Grateful and still in awe of him.
He considers me for a second longer, and I know—God, I know—he reads every contradiction in my eyes. His hand finds mine, warm, grounding, steady. The contact doesn’t just calm my pulse—it reminds me who I belong to, who we are together.
He strokes a thumb across my palm before he lets go. The touch is just enough to make me want to hold on.
The low rumble of voices swells from the other side of the curtain. A burst of applause follows—sharp, sudden, reminding me we’re seconds away from stepping into the light.
The door behind us opens and Celeste slips inside, all sleek black lines and composed efficiency, her gaze sweeping over us in one precise pass.
“Everything’s in order out front.” With the way she’s orchestrated the event, nothing dares go wrong.
She showed up at eight a.m. with an entourage and hasn’t left yet.
How she still looks fresh twelve hours later is beyond me. Even though I spent four hours with a dresser, a hair stylist, and a makeup artist, I still wonder if I’m put together well enough.
“We’re about ready here,” Dorian informs her.
The side door opens again, and Brennan steps in.
Black suit, open collar, no tie, but the look in his eyes is all business.
I know without asking that he’s been with security, checking every exit, every face on the floor.
He stops just inside, gaze locking on mine for a beat before sweeping the room.
“All clear.” His tone is no-nonsense, syllables clipped as he looks at Dorian. Then he returns his attention to me. “I’ll be right behind you. Then when you’re on stage, don’t lose sight of me.”
I nod.
Nearby, Willow Mills—the wife of the man who emceed our wedding reception—is being fitted with a lapel microphone. The celebrated philanthropist is Celeste’s pick to introduce me tonight.
She and Everett, along with his team, spent days curating the speaker list, and everyone had been carefully selected.
There’s a congressman, a retired Secretary of State, business leaders, other educators like me, a rabbi, a minister.
Somehow Dorian has been made to look like an avenging angel who will represent the Great State of Texas in Washington better than anyone else.
Willow has effortless poise, and I’ve seen her at other events. Her confidence is legendary, and I respect her tremendously. She’s gorgeous, radiant in a sleeveless column dress the color of midnight and diamond studs that don’t need to compete with her.
As soon as the AV person is finished with her, she looks at me and smiles. It’s not a dazzling public one, but a private, we’ve-got-this smile of solidarity that women give each other when it’s time to lift and be lifted.
“Let’s go show them who they’re voting for,” Willow says when she reaches me, hands light on my forearms. “You look like the wife of a Senator.” She sweeps her gaze over me. “Or a woman who could also be a Senator. Or more.”
I appreciate her support, even though that’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. “Thank you for doing this. I appreciate it. ”
“With pleasure.” Her eyes flick to my hands—she notices both rings—and then back to me. “It’s a good night.”
“It is,” I agree.
Beyond the curtain, noise swells, and the stage manager appears. Willow gives my arm one last squeeze before stepping into the light.
“Places, everyone,” Celeste says.
As Willow takes the stage, the AV person does a mic check with me, and my nerves stretch to their breaking point.
Brennan studies the curtain, the angles, the line of sight to the podium and the steps back down, then me. His gaze gentles. “Reminder to also stay in my sightline when you and Dorian exit the stage together.”
“I will.” What happened in the past has made my men even more cautious than they might be otherwise, and I respect that. I know they don’t want anything to happen to me. And the thought of either of them being hurt—or worse—terrifies me.
Staying safe is something we all need to do for each other.
He comes in closer. His fingertips brush mine. It’s a small touch, a grounding wire.
The three of us spend a moment together, locked in an unbreakable circle. Reassured by their strength, my pulse finds a steady rhythm.
The crowd quiets in waves as Willow reaches the podium.
“Good evening,” she says, and the mic adores her.
She talks about service without sounding sanctimonious, about doing the work when the cameras go home. She talks about Texas with the reverence of someone who chooses to give instead of take. She does not talk about herself. She talks about people who lift and stand and refuse to be swayed.
When she says my name, it’s not an introduction—it’s a passing of the torch .
I draw a breath that tastes of stage lights and adrenaline. Brennan’s eyes flick to mine, sharp and sure. Dorian’s fingers graze the small of my back once, enough to tether me to him without holding me there. “I’m proud of you.”
Drinking courage from them, I walk forward.
The curtain parts, the applause swells, and the moment swallows me whole.
The heat from the lights hits first, followed by the bright blur of faces in the front rows and the restless shimmer of cameras along press row. My pulse pounds in my ears, but the applause steadies me—loud, sustained, not polite.
I cross to the podium. My hand rests on the clear acrylic, the pink diamond catching the light. On the monitor, I want my husbands to see all three bands together. A trinity of devotion, strength, and endurance, as Théo had noted.
“When I met Dorian Vale,” I begin, my voice steadier than I expect, “I thought he was the last man I would ever stand beside.”
The room laughs, right where I hoped they would.
“I was wrong. He is relentless. Brilliant. Unapologetically exacting. I have watched him fight battles you never saw, take hits so the people he loves didn’t have to.”
The words come easier now. I tell them how he bends without breaking, to listen without losing himself, to hold power and hold people. I glance toward the wings and find him there—still, watchful, eyes locked on mine. “I support his mission to fight for the Great State of Texas, to fight for you.”
The crowd applauds, waving their Vale for Senate placards.
Once again, I glance toward the wing. He’s there at the edge of the light, carved out of shadow, eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. I swear I can feel the heat of his hand on the small of my back, even from here.
When the crowd quiets somewhat, I lean forward a little. “It is my great honor”—the words feel like a vow—”to introduce my husband—and your next United States Senator—Dorian Vale!”
The room detonates—applause, whistles, cameras, a lifting sound like joy being loud on purpose. Dorian jogs up the steps to the platform and strides onto the stage full of confidence, looking like a man on his way to the White House.
But before addressing his hundreds of supporters, he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me in a little closer. He takes my mouth, brief and wicked, and presses his thumb against the pink diamond in full view of God and the Texas Chronicle.
He keeps his arm around me for a moment longer, letting the noise crest and settle. Then he takes the podium, gaze sweeping the room until the applause fades to a charged quiet.
“Texas deserves a fighter,” he says, voice carrying without strain. “Someone who won’t flinch when the arrows fly. Someone who will protect what matters, and who will stand his ground—no matter who tries to push him off it.”
A ripple moves through the crowd.
“I’m here tonight because I believe in this state, and I believe in its people. I believe in what we can build—together.” His gaze finds mine for a fraction of a second. “And I’m not going to stop until we do.”
The applause surges again, breaking the moment. He steps back from the mic, the lights catching in his eyes. The battle for the Senate seat has started.
Dorian
The applause is still echoing in my ears as the elevator doors open to the penthouse afterparty.
There are voices, laughter, and the bright clink of glass against glass.
Success sounds like this. The space is full, and it’s not just campaign staff or the donor–class there for photo ops.
There’s old-guard money in bespoke suits, young tech wealth in narrow-lapelled jackets, and women who can turn a smile into a signed check by dessert.
Isla’s hand is warm in mine, the rings on her fingers catching the light as we step inside. Brennan moves ahead, eyes already sweeping the room, studying angles the way other people look for a drink.