Epilogue #2
“I love Wren like she’s my own daughter,” Gemma chimed in, beaming with pride. “And frankly, you still help me fix the espresso machine when it breaks, so I’m keeping you around.”
I smiled at her, knowing this small shop offered more security than the estate ever could.
The front door chimed. I turned toward the sound. Wren stepped inside, shoving the street door shut behind her against the coastal wind. The freezing air clung to her coat as she walked toward us.
She stopped beside me, sliding her phone into her pocket. She leaned in, pressing her lips to my jaw. Her skin was freezing against mine, carrying the bitter chill of the wind outside. I shifted my weight, balancing the cup, and leaned into the touch, grateful to have her close.
Wren pulled back, brushing a hand over our daughter’s hair.
“Were you being good for your dad?” Wren asked, her voice bright.
My daughter babbled a response, slapping my sweater. Wren smiled, untying her scarf and letting it drape over her shoulders. She looked up, her eyes shining with nervous excitement. She braced a hand against the display case.
“The city council officially approved the Oakhaven housing grant,” Wren announced, looking between me and Silas. “Your financial projections cornered them, Cassian. They couldn’t say no.”
Silas gave a low whistle of approval. I grinned, incredibly proud of the woman standing in front of me.
She had orchestrated the entire project, outmaneuvering the local politicians better than I ever handled my own boardroom.
Before I could respond, Gemma let out a loud, sudden cheer.
She clapped her hands, a cloud of white dust puffing from her apron, and disappeared through the doors into the kitchen.
I frowned, watching the doors swing back and forth. I looked back at Wren, who was currently attempting to wipe a sticky smudge off our daughter’s chin.
“Gemma seems thrilled about the zoning laws,” I murmured.
Wren just offered a tight, cryptic smile. A moment later, Gemma kicked the kitchen doors open again and marched back into the storefront. She carried a small cake on a cardboard platter. The dessert was coated in vanilla frosting. Gemma set it on the top of the display case.
I stared blankly at the vanilla swirls. The rich scent of the sugar filled the air. I ran through the dates in my head. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t Wren’s. Our wedding anniversary was months away, and it wasn’t our daughter’s birthday either.
I looked from the dessert back to my wife. She wasn’t just smiling about the grant anymore. The nervous energy in her eyes had shifted into something else entirely.
She had planned something specifically for me. I stared at her, recognizing the weight of her trust. She felt safe enough to share a celebration in the middle of a working-class bakery, unbothered by the lack of a catered dining room.
“That’s incredible work on the grant, Wren,” I said, eyeing the frosting. “But why is Gemma bringing out a cake? Did I miss an anniversary?”
Gemma leaned over the register, tapping her fingers against the countertop. “You didn’t miss anything, Cassian! Wren just baked up a little surprise for you this morning, so pay attention.”
Wren slid the knife across the counter. The handle bumped against my coffee cup. I looked at the knife, then down at my daughter, who was happily babbling on my hip.
“Hold her steady for a second,” I murmured.
Wren leaned on the counter. She braced her hands around our daughter’s waist, holding the toddler steady against my hip. With my right hand free, I picked up the knife and pressed the tip into the center of the vanilla frosting.
“Just slice down the middle,” Wren urged.
Her voice hitched. I glanced up at her. The icing gave way under the blade. I pulled the blade back, carving a wedge from the center of the sponge. I slid the free slice onto the cardboard platter.
A cascade of bright pink and blue sprinkles spilled out from the hollowed center of the cake.
They hit the platter with a soft clatter. The tiny candies scattered everywhere. I stared at the bright colors mixing on the plate. The background noise of the bakery vanished entirely.
For a split second, I wasn’t in the bakery anymore.
I was sitting at the head of the dining table at the Kensington estate.
I was twenty-eight years old again, wearing a suffocating silk tie, watching my father scream about corporate trust funds while my pregnant wife sat beside me, abandoned to the wolves.
My fingers loosened. The knife slipped from my grip and struck the platter.
The noise snapped me back into the present. I looked away from the sprinkles to the floorboards. Silas stood quietly by the display case. Gemma beamed behind the register.
There was no boardroom. There was no Octavia whispering insults across a dining table. There was only the woman standing in front of me, offering me everything.
Silas let out a low whistle from the edge of the counter. “Well, look at that. Looks like the walk-up is going to be getting a little crowded soon.”
I stared at Wren. The pink flush from the winter wind was still bright across her cheeks.
“Wren,” I rasped, the word barely more than a breath. “Are we having another baby? Are you serious?”
“I am,” Wren answered.
She offered a brilliant, tearful smile, reaching out to touch my coat.
“But it’s too soon to tell if it’s a boy or a girl,” she added.
I pushed the cake aside, ignoring the dozen blue sprinkles that scattered onto the floor, and wrapped my arm around her waist. I pulled her close, burying my face into the cold fabric of her coat.
The frigid scent of the coastal wind mixed with the warm aroma of the melted butter.
I breathed it in, holding her tight against my chest.
I had broken my entire life apart just to earn the right to stand beside her. The mountain of liquid cash I transferred to her trust meant nothing compared to the monumental weight of the trust she just handed back to me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered into her collar. “Boy or girl, I promise you they will be loved and protected.”
She wrapped her arms around my shoulders. She held me close, resting her cheek against my hair. Our daughter babbled, slapping a hand against the ruined cake. I pulled them both against my chest, surrounded by the warmth of the bakery, finally able to just be the man my family needed.