Epilogue
My name is posted on the door.
HOPE KRISTIANSEN.
I run my fingers over the letters once, grounding myself before I go inside. The hallway buzzes with movement. Heels striking polished floors. Voices layered over each other. Someone calls out cues into a headset. Another person rushes past with a clipboard pressed to their hip.
Everything moves fast in Los Angeles.
The rotating dressing room is beautifully appointed and well organized. My wardrobe rack lines one wall, though my stage outfit already hangs front and center, untouched from when it was steamed earlier.
Makeup spreads across the counter in controlled chaos. A ring of lights frames the mirror, casting a surreal glow over everything.
I close the door behind me and take a breath.
Tonight isn’t a stepping stone. It’s the biggest night of my life.
Staring at my reflection, I realize the woman looking back at me carries pieces of every version I’ve been.
The girl who busked between flower vendors and fishmongers, hoping someone would stay long enough to hear a full song.
A version of me who lay broken on cold pavement, bargaining against help because she couldn’t afford a doctor.
The one who rebuilt herself in a stranger’s apartment, learning how to stand on her own without leaning too hard.
The woman I am now, deeply in love and about to have an experience I never dared dream about.
All of them are here.
Humble. Stronger.
Grateful.
My stylist helps me into the dress, which was custom made for me. Deep emerald, tucked in through the waist, falling clean along my legs with a slit revealing my thigh only when I move.
The fabric catches light without fighting for it. My shoulders are bare and my dark hair falls in loose waves over one side, pinned just enough to stay out of my face without looking structured. Makeup sits somewhere between polished and lived-in, smoky around the eyes, natural everywhere else.
I’m not trying to belong here.
My heart still pounds. Not from fear. From the ginormity of this moment.
This is the fucking Grammys and I’m taking the stage in moments. I’m up for Best New Artist, and everyone thinks I have a shot to win.
I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.
A sharp, controlled knock raps on the door.
“Come in,” I croak, coughing to clear my throat.
The door opens and an usher steps in, headset in place. “Ms. Kristiansen, we have someone—”
He steps aside and Alek walks in.
Everything inside me stills. I nearly burst into tears.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had to be in Amsterdam.” The words leave before I can shape them.
“Hope, my love.” He closes the door behind him, a silly half smile already in place. “You thought I’d miss this for a stupid gaming conference?”
“You said you couldn’t make it.” I take a step toward him, then another. “You said—”
“Total lie.” He kisses my forehead so he doesn’t mess up my makeup. “Had to sell it for the surprise.”
I stare at him. “You lied?”
“I had to be convincing.” He shrugs. “Security didn’t love it, but Linus helped me with the ruse.”
I laugh, the sound breaking through everything else. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re so silly. I’d never miss such an important night.” He grips my hand. “Never.”
Tears threaten. “You’re actually here.”
I don’t think. I wrap my arms around him.
He exhales against my neck, hands settling at my waist. The noise outside fades for a second. The pressure. The expectation. Everything narrows down to this.
I pull back enough to see him. “I was so sad.”
“Seriously. Did you really think I’d miss your debut performance at the Grammys?” He tilts his head. “Not happening.”
I shake my head. “I tried to be cool, I didn’t want you to think I needed you if you couldn’t be here.”
“You don’t need me here.” His expression shifts, not hurt or surprised. “You want me here.”
Yes. There’s a difference. It hits me all at once.
“I do.” I kiss his entire face.
“Good.” He grins. “You ready?”
I nod. “I am now.”
He leans in and presses a kiss to my temple, grounding, steady. “Go, they’re waiting.”
The stage is bigger than anything I’ve stood on before. It should, but when I step into the light, it doesn’t swallow me.
It opens.
The crowd in the arena stretches out in front of me. Rows of faces, cameras, lights, people I grew up listening to focusing on me.
I can’t see them, though. No one tells you this.
The stage manager signals me as the commercial break ends. For a second, it’s silent as I adjust the mic. Grip the guitar. Start on cue.
The first chord carries across the entire stadium, filling the space and settling into the room. It moves through me.
I begin to play. The song builds from quiet and grounded, opening into something bigger without losing its center. Every note lands where I want it. Every word holds.
I see him to the side of the stage. Alek doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
The chorus rises and the room follows, energy lifting, not chaotic or scattered. Locked in. I feel it in my bones and the way the guitar responds under my fingers.
This moment is mine.
I finish and let the last note fade. Silence holds for a fraction of a second.
Surprisingly, in a room of industry executives and fellow musicians, everything breaks. Applause is immediate, overwhelming.
I take it in before stepping back.
Alek and I are ushered back to my seats.
Time blurs. Categories move fast. Names are called. Lights shift. People stand. People sit.
Then— Best New Artist.
My name is called and I don’t hear the rest. Alek kisses me. I stand. Walk to the stage. Try not to think. I’m handed the award and turn to the mic.
The room waits.
I let it. Look right into his eyes.
“I want to thank someone who changed everything for me.” My voice holds. “I wouldn’t be up here today if it weren’t for my husband, Alek.”
Husband.
The word is right. It always has been since the day we got married.
“He found me at my lowest point and didn’t question whether I was worth the effort.” I find him in the crowd. “He shows up every day. Not for this.” I gesture around the room. “For me. For the real version of me.”
The room stays quiet.
“He gives me the kind of love you can’t plan for. It’s not always something you recognize when it’s right in front of you.”
I hold the moment.
“This is for you, my love. Thank you for never letting me walk away from myself.”
The applause comes again. Louder.
I don’t hear it.
I’m looking at him and he’s looking at me. Exactly the same way he always has.
Like he chose me long before I understood why.
Thank you for reading Chords of Destiny.