Chapter Fourteen Where We Begin #3
Beatrice smiled.
“Neither was I.”
“How are things in Spain?”
“Different.”
The old Covenant properties were being reviewed individually. Safe houses that could legally continue humanitarian work were being transferred to independently governed organizations. Art records were going to restitution teams. Illegal intelligence infrastructure was being dismantled.
“No more Keeper?” Naomi asked.
Beatrice shook her head.
“No more Keeper.”
Naomi smiled.
“How does that feel?”
Beatrice considered it.
“Quiet.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
She glanced around the wedding.
“I think I had forgotten that quiet could be peaceful.”
Naomi touched her arm.
“Stay for cake.”
Beatrice smiled.
“I was hoping you'd ask.”
Later, Adrian found Naomi alone on the terrace.
He leaned beside her.
“So.”
“So?”
“Isaiah.”
Naomi waited.
“I filed paperwork.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“That quickly?”
“I've spent my entire life around forged documents. Legitimate paperwork is surprisingly easy.”
Naomi laughed.
“What did you decide?”
“Adrian Isaiah James.”
She smiled.
“It suits you.”
“I think so.”
“And the restitution job?”
“I accepted.”
Naomi bumped her shoulder against his.
“Look at you.”
“Don't.”
“Career. Family. A middle name.”
“I can still leave.”
“No, you can't.”
He looked toward the dance floor.
Amara was talking with Evelyn.
“I think I'm going to visit her.”
Naomi looked at him.
“Amara?”
“In Paris.”
Her smile softened.
“For how long?”
“A weekend.”
“That sounds terrifyingly healthy.”
“I don't like it.”
Naomi laughed.
Adrian looked at her.
Then held out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
Naomi stared.
“You dance?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
He led her onto the floor.
Much later, when the final guests had gone and the estate had fallen quiet, Lucas carried Naomi across the threshold of their suite.
She squealed.
“Put me down!”
“This is tradition.”
“You nearly threw out your back.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You made a noise.”
“I was breathing.”
Naomi stared.
“Like your snoring?”
Lucas kicked the door closed behind them.
“I'm reconsidering marriage.”
“Too late.”
He lowered her slowly.
The humor faded as their eyes met.
Naomi still wore her gown.
Her curls had loosened.
Her lipstick had mostly disappeared.
Lucas looked at her like the ceremony had ended hours ago and he still could not quite believe she was real.
He reached for her.
“Mrs. Taylor?”
“No.”
He laughed.
“Mrs. James-Taylor?”
“Maybe.”
“Naomi?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
His fingers traced gently along her cheek.
“I've wanted to do this all night.”
“You kissed me in front of a hundred people.”
“Not this.”
He kissed her slowly.
Naomi's arms slid around him.
The long day disappeared beneath the warmth of his mouth.
Lucas kissed her cheek, her jaw, then the soft place beneath her ear that always made her breath catch.
Naomi smiled.
“You remember.”
“I study important architecture.”
She laughed, then gasped when he kissed her again.
His hands rested at her waist, careful of the gown.
Naomi looked down.
“Amara will kill you if you damage this dress.”
Lucas immediately removed his hands.
She burst out laughing.
“Coward.”
“I met both your mothers.”
“That is fair.”
He helped her with the delicate fastenings at the back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Each button loosened beneath his fingers.
Naomi watched him in the mirror.
There was desire in his eyes.
But more than that.
Wonder.
Affection.
Familiarity.
She turned before the gown could fall, holding it against herself.
Lucas smiled.
“What?”
“You.”
Naomi tilted her head.
“What about me?”
“You're my wife.”
The simplicity of it undid her.
Naomi stepped into him.
Lucas wrapped his arms around her.
They stood together in the quiet room, forehead to forehead.
Then Naomi whispered,
“You're my husband.”
His smile was slow.
“Yes.”
She kissed him again.
And the rest of the night belonged only to them.
Six Months Later
The first runway show for BELONGING BY NAOMI JAMES sold out in eleven minutes.
Naomi insisted this was because the venue was small.
Lucas insisted she was lying to herself.
The collection launched inside the renovated brick building near the Thames.
Women of different sizes, ages, heights, and body shapes walked the runway.
No apology.
No “flattering tricks” designed to hide them.
Beautiful tailoring.
Bold eveningwear.
Luxurious coats.
Soft knits.
Sculpted dresses.
Clothes that met women where they were.
Amara stood backstage pretending she wasn't crying.
Evelyn was openly crying enough for both of them.
When Naomi walked onto the runway after the final model, the audience rose.
She stopped beneath the lights.
For one overwhelming moment, she remembered being sixteen and sketching dresses in the margins of school notebooks.
Joseph teasing her.
Evelyn saving money for better pencils.
Amara somewhere far away writing letters about coats designed badly for women with hips.
Naomi smiled.
Then bowed.
She had done it.
Not inherited.
Not gifted.
Built.
Lucas waited backstage.
She ran into his arms.
“You were incredible.”
“You have to say that.”
“Actually, marriage contracts don't require it.”
Naomi kissed him.
“How did the institute meeting go?”
Lucas's eyes brightened.
The Taylor Institute for Design and Community Architecture had officially opened the previous month in East London.
Not a vanity monument.
Not another glass tower.
The institute provided scholarships, apprenticeships, and community-development grants to young architects and designers who would otherwise struggle to enter the field.
“We approved the first twelve fellows.”
Naomi grinned.
“Twelve?”
“Twelve.”
“Look at us being respectable.”
“It's unsettling.”
She kissed him again.
Then glanced across the room.
Hudson stood talking with Adrian.
The two men had become strangely fond of one another, largely because Adrian had absolutely no interest in being impressed by Hudson.
Olivia claimed that was good for him.
Hudson and Olivia had sold Taylor House.
Their so-called smaller home had eight bedrooms after Olivia reluctantly conceded nine might be excessive.
Taylor International had survived.
Smaller.
More transparent.
Several divisions had been sold.
Legacy contracts remained under independent review.
Hudson no longer fought every uncomfortable discovery.
Sometimes he even volunteered them.
Rose Winter had returned permanently to Britain.
Rebuilding her marriage to Adrian Vale was slow.
Some days are good.
Some painfully honest.
Julian had begun visiting her without security arrangements or secret intermediaries.
Naomi considered that miraculous enough.
Beatrice now served on an international restitution and witness-protection advisory board where, according to Anthony, she terrified government officials into behaving ethically.
Daniel Mercer had entered guilty pleas to multiple charges involving obstruction, unlawful detention, stolen cultural property, and conspiracy. His cooperation in recovering missing artworks reduced neither the seriousness of his crimes nor the damage he had caused.
Adrian visited him twice.
Not weekly.
Not from obligation.
Twice.
That was enough for now.
Simon Kells remained in custody awaiting trial for Arthur Taylor's murder and numerous additional offenses.
The evidence against him was overwhelming.
And Mateo Serrano—
Gabriel Vega—
Naomi's biological father—
had survived long enough to stand before a court.
He pleaded guilty to several charges and contested others.
Investigations continued across multiple countries.
His empire fractured quickly once accounts were frozen and lieutenants realized there would be no rescue.
He was not redeemed by fatherhood.
Naomi had been clear about that.
But he had begun cooperating with investigators about trafficking routes and stolen art.
Whether that cooperation came from remorse, strategy, age, or some mixture of all three, Naomi did not pretend to know.
He wrote her one letter every month.
She had opened two.
The others remained in a drawer.
That was her decision.
And nobody rushed her.
Adrian approached with two glasses.
He handed one to Naomi.
“You're staring into space.”
“I’m reflecting.”
“You looked confused.”
“Go away.”
He smiled.
His restitution work had already helped return seventeen pieces of art to families and institutions.
For the first time, his knowledge was being used without someone demanding ownership of the people attached to it.
Amara joined them.
“Photo.”
Naomi groaned.
“We’ve taken twenty.”
“Twenty-one.”
Adrian sighed.
“She has become impossible.”
Amara smiled.
“I lost thirty-one years. You can survive photographs.”
Adrian's face softened.
“Fine.”
They gathered.
Evelyn immediately joined.
Then Lucas.
Then Olivia dragged Hudson into it.
Anthony appeared without invitation.
Catherine followed, apologizing for him.
Rose and Julian came next.
Adrian Vale stood beside them.
Beatrice tried to remain outside the frame until Naomi grabbed her hand.
“Absolutely not.”
Soon everyone was squeezed together.
The photographer laughed.
“Closer.”
Anthony said, “Physically impossible.”
Naomi looked around.
At Evelyn.
Amara.
Adrian.
Lucas.
Hudson.
Olivia.
Rose.
People connected by marriage, birth, mistakes, survival, forgiveness, and complicated second chances.
Not a perfect family.
Naomi no longer believed in those.
Perfect families were usually stories people told from far enough away.
This was better.
They were real.
“Ready?” the photographer called.
Naomi wrapped one arm around Lucas and the other around Adrian.
“Ready.”
The camera flashed.
That night, Naomi and Lucas walked home along the Thames.
The city glowed across the water.
Naomi had kicked off her heels and was carrying them in one hand.
Lucas had complained about this for exactly thirty seconds before taking them from her.
Now he carried them.
Naomi smiled at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I'm allowed.”
“You are.”
They continued walking.
Lucas eventually said, “My mother asked something today.”
Naomi became suspicious.
“What?”
“When we're giving her grandchildren.”
Naomi stopped.
Lucas did too.
“What did you say?”
“That it was none of her business.”
“Good answer.”