EPILOGUE —Alexander
NOVEMBER
“I swear I’m smashing Jake’s head with a golf stick as soon as I leave this place,” Viktor seethes, adjusting his suit jacket, jaw tight.
My lips tug into a faint smile.
“You can’t blame him for flirting with Tyler,” I say, my attention caught by the painting across the room, it’s an image of overwater bungalows glowing beneath golden light, turquoise water alive with dolphins, the air painted with warmth and flowers.
It reminds me of Bora Bora, the paradise where Lucas and I stayed for over a week last year. The memory tightens something deep in my chest.
“Well, Tyler is mine,” Viktor grits out, cutting through my thoughts.
I sigh, shifting my gaze back to him.
“And how many times has Tyler told you that he isn’t yours, Dear cousin?” I ask sternly. His jaw flexes, but I keep going. “You can’t go on a killing spree every time people interact with him, Viktor.”
He lets out a low scoff, plucking a glass of champagne from a passing server’s tray. He takes a slow sip, watching me over the rim with that sharp glint of mischief in his eyes.
“You’re one to talk,” he says finally, smirking. “I’m sure Maksim tells you how Lucas gets all that attention at school. I bet it keeps you up at night.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Of course it does.
Maksim never fails to remind me that people stare at Lucas, whisper about him, and want him too.
And I know I shouldn’t care.
I want people to see how beautiful he is. Hell, I’m proud of it, fucking over the moon that someone as breathtaking as Lucas is mine. He’s radiant in a way that draws people in without even trying. The kind of beauty that turns heads and softens rooms.
But sometimes, it drives me insane.
It’s the way people look at him—soft, hungry, curious, it’s the kind of look that lingers too long. It makes me want to break something just to remind them who he belongs to.
The thought of anyone seeing him like that makes my blood run hot.
But it also gives me this twisted satisfaction, knowing they’ll never have what I do.
They don’t get to touch him.
They don’t get to sleep beside him, to feel the way he curls into me in the middle of the night.
They don’t get to devour his lips, to taste the little sounds he makes when he melts under my hands.
They don’t get to trace the curve of his neck with kisses or hear the way he moans and whimper in that erotic and wrecked way of his.
They don’t get his smile, that soft, glowing one he saves just for me.
I know he loves me.
I know he trusts me, chooses me, every damn day.
And he still looks at me with that same tenderness, that same shy boldness that ruins me every single time.
So yeah. Maybe it keeps me up at night—the thought of anyone else even thinking they could have a piece of him.
Because Lucas isn’t just someone I love.
He’s my calm, my obsession, the center of everything that keeps me human.
I drain the rest of my drink, forcing down the edge in my voice when I mutter,
“Maybe it does keep me up sometimes.”
Viktor’s lips curl into a knowing grin. “I know.”
Before I can respond, Maksim’s voice cuts through the low hum of the crowd.
“What are you two yapping about?”
He’s walking toward us, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair is different, no longer the dyed buzzcut he’s always kept. It’s longer now, tapering into something almost stylish. It looks good on him.
“Just talking about how unfair it is that you drag us to this stupid exhibition every damn year,” Viktor says, smirking. “Your art isn’t stupid, though.”
Maksim rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of pride behind it. Then his gaze lands on me.
“Can’t believe it’s been about a year and a few months since the last one,” he says, mouth curling into that familiar taunting smirk. “Ready to bid on another painting again, dear brother?”
“Fuck off, Maksim.” I shoot him a glare. “I still don’t know what to do with the last one.”
“You could hang it in your bedroom,” Viktor suggests casually, taking a sip of his drink.
“Hell no. Lucas is scared shitless of that painting,” I reply, the memory of his uneasy expression flashing in my head.
“Shame,” Maksim mutters, but his tone shifts suddenly. His eyes flick past me, and for a moment, something in his face softens—relief, maybe. But it hardens again, quick, like he’s fighting it.
I follow his gaze.
Tristan stands across the room beside a marble pillar, watching us. His eyes lock on Maksim first, then shift to me. He gives a slight nod in greeting. I return it out of habit.
“Why’s he just standing there like that?” Viktor asks, brows furrowing.
“You’re still torturing him, I see,” I say, raising a brow at Maksim.
“I have to,” he replies, his voice edged with defiance. “He tortured me too.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. They’ll figure it out on their own.
***
The bell above the door gives a soft chime as I step inside.
The air smells like cinnamon and baked sugar, warm in a way that makes my chest tighten with nostalgia.
Behind the counter, an older woman looks up from the register. The moment her eyes land on me, they widen slightly before breaking into a wide, delighted smile.
“Hello, Agnes,” I greet, my voice even, but softer than usual.
“Alexander,” she says, a small laugh escaping her as she wipes her hands on her apron. “It’s nice seeing you again. My goodness, has it been a year already?”
“Just about.” I glance around the café. The place is small but beautiful—soft lighting, warm wood, framed photos, vases of fresh flowers. It’s quiet and peaceful, the kind of place Lucas would love to sit and study in.
“Congratulations on the opening,” I say. “It’s… really something.”
Her smile turns shy. Her fingers twist the strings of her apron. “Wouldn’t have been possible without your mother. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. And she believes in my daughter, too—Maggie. She’s… she’s something special, your mother.”
“She is,” I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly. “She has that effect on people.”
Even after all these years, my mother still talks about Agnes. About the warmth she brought into the kitchen, about her laugh echoing down the hallways of our house. She never forgets people who showed her loyalty.
Agnes takes my pastries order, the kind I know Lucas would like. She insists I sit while she packs them, adding an extra pastry or two despite my quiet protests. Some habits don’t change.
When everything’s ready, I thank her and start for the door. But then—
“Alexander,” she calls softly.
I stop and turn. She’s standing in front of me now, hands wringing in her apron, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“She’s doing fine,” she says.
I don’t need to ask who. I know.
“My daughter,” she adds, voice trembling. “She’s… she’s doing fine now. Since Robert Grey died.”
She swallows hard. “She’s not completely healed, but knowing he’s gone, knowing he can’t hurt her anymore has helped her. She’s smiling again, Alexander. Really smiling.”
Her eyes glisten, not with grief—something else. Something closer to relief.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
She looks at me for a long moment, the silence stretching like a bridge between us.
And in that quiet, we both understand.
I don’t know how she figured it out.
But she knows.
And we’re both choosing to bury it.
Her gaze softens. “What happened to Robert… it changed our lives,” she says quietly. “Mine, and my daughter’s. For the better.”
Something in my chest tightens. How do I tell her that my life changed that night, too?
That the same alley where I ended his life was the same place and time I met the love of my life.
Instead, I nod, giving her one of my rare smiles.
“I’m glad,” I say softly.
She exhales, like she’s been holding that breath for years.
When I step outside, the cool air hits my face. I slide into the car, the bag of pastries warm in my hands, her words still echoing in my chest.
She’s doing fine.
She’s smiling again.
I make the drive to Lucas’s mother’s apartment and park by the curb.
It’s a two-bedroom brownstone, modest but warm and cozy.
When Lucas told me back in January that he wanted to get a place for his mom, I agreed without argument.
They’d settled things between them, at least enough to start rebuilding what they lost. Step by step.
She started working as a kennel assistant in March, trying to get her life together. Good for her.
Still, if she ever hurts Lucas again, I’ll make her disappear. Simple as that.
I climb the few stairs up to the house and knock. A moment later, Kathryn opens the door.
“Hello, Alex,” she greets softly, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips.
She still walks on eggshells around me. She knows I don’t fully trust her—that I’m only here for Lucas’s sake. He loves her, or at least, he’s trying to. She’s not someone he can forget or cut off, no matter how much he once wanted to. I understand that.
“Hello, Kathryn,” I reply evenly, handing her a box of pastries. She steps aside, opening the door wider for me to enter.
“Oh,” she says, her brown eyes brightening as she looks at the box. “For me?”
“Yes,” I say simply, closing the door behind me.
Milo comes barreling toward me, tail wagging so hard his entire body shakes, barking like he hasn’t seen me in years, even though I dropped him and Lucas off here this morning.
“Hey, little man,” I say, bending slightly as he circles my legs. I rub his head, and he wriggles happily under my touch.
Milo’s a rescue corgi. He’d been staying at the shelter where Kathryn works.
Lucas saw him one afternoon when he visited the shelter and immediately fell in love.
He said the dog looked lonely and lost. I’m not really a pet person, but I’d do anything for Lucas.
So, I adopted Milo for him. Now he’s part of our lives.
He stays with Kathryn during the week while Lucas is busy with classes, and spends weekends with us at the penthouse.