Chapter 16 #3
My sister looks exactly like she did days ago when I left: poised, controlled, expensive clothes tailored perfectly. But something in her expression has shifted. She's less ice now, more steel. Or maybe I'm just different enough to see what was always there.
"Welcome home," she says simply. "I assume the Rotterdam situation is resolved?"
"Completely." I move toward her, and before I can second-guess the impulse, I pull her into a brief hug. "Thank you. For everything."
She stiffens for half a second, then returns the embrace with surprising strength. "You're my brother. Of course I helped."
When we separate, she's blinking rapidly. Not quite crying but close. Then control slams back into place as she turns to Isabella. "Isabella. I hope the extraction was smooth?"
"Thanks to your logistics." Isabella's smiling, genuine warmth in her expression. "The flight was perfect."
"Good." Margot gestures to the SUV. "I've had your old suite updated a bit and started renovation work to give you more space.
" A pause. "Contractors have been working on knocking through the wall, but it won't be finished for a few more days.
You'll have privacy while you figure out your next steps. "
Margot's been preparing for me to come home.
Isabella glances at me, reading the shift in my expression. Margot's offering more than just a place to stay. She's offering permanence. Acceptance. Home.
"Margot—" I start.
"Don't." She cuts me off, voice sharp but not unkind.
"It's time we claimed this house as our own instead of preserving it like a museum.
Luc has the guest house out back. I'm planning to renovate the master suite for myself eventually.
" Her mouth quirks slightly. "But I wanted you settled first. Wanted you to have a reason to stay. "
The weight of what she's offering settles over me. This isn't just courtesy. It's her choosing to move forward, choosing to rebuild family instead of staying frozen in grief and resentment.
We load into the SUV: me in front with Margot, Isabella and Luc in back. The drive through New Orleans at night is quiet, each of us processing the shift from operational to civilian. Margot navigates familiar streets with easy competence, heading toward the Garden District and home.
When we pull through the gates, something settles inside me. The mansion looks like home again: the antebellum architecture preserved meticulously, gardens maintained to perfection, the whole place radiating old money and older expectations.
But this time I'm not here as the black sheep of the family. Not here temporarily before running back to Cerberus and another op in another country. I'm here because I chose to come home. Because this is where I'm building my life now.
Margot parks in the circular drive. "Come on. I'll show you what's been done so far."
We follow her inside, through the familiar foyer where Maman's portrait still hangs above the staircase.
When Margot opens the door, my old suite already looks a little different.
The furniture's been updated—new bed, new nightstands, fresh linens.
But through an opening in the far wall, I can see construction is clearly underway—exposed studs where the wall's been partially removed, drop cloths protecting the floors, tools stacked neatly in the corner.
"I had them start after you left," Margot says quietly.
"Figured if you were actually coming home, you'd need a real space.
Not something temporary." She meets my eyes.
"Somewhere that could be yours. It'll take another week or so to finish—full bathroom renovation, new flooring throughout, and proper closet space. For both of you."
Isabella's hand finds mine, squeezes gently.
"Thank you," I manage. The words feel inadequate for what she's giving us.
"We're family." Margot's voice carries the same hard certainty from earlier. "Whatever you need, Remy. Whatever either of you need. You're home now. Start acting like it."
She leaves us standing in the doorway, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Isabella steps into the room, crossing to the windows that overlook magnolia trees and garden paths lit by soft landscape lighting. "She did this for us."
"She did this for us." I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. "Knocked down walls, renovated everything. Made it into something we could build a life in."
"That's a hell of a gift."
"It is." I move to stand behind her, hands settling on her hips as we both look out at the gardens. "So this is home."
"This is home." She leans back against me. "At least for now. We'll figure out the rest as we go."
The suite is everything Margot promised: fully appointed, thoughtfully designed, comfortable without being ostentatious. Isabella explores while I secure the perimeter out of habit, checking locks and sight lines even though we're probably safer here than anywhere else in the country.
When I find her in the bedroom, she's standing by the window looking out at the gardens. Moonlight catches in her hair, and exhaustion is written in every line of her body. We've been running on adrenaline for days, and the crash is finally catching up.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She turns, crossing to where I stand by the bed. I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Claiming the moment. Claiming her.
"We made it," I murmur. "Rotterdam, Lazarev, all of it. We survived."
"We did." Her hands come up to cover mine. "And now what?"
"Now we figure out what building a life actually means." I kiss her forehead, breathing in her scent. "Together. If that's what you want."
"That's definitely what I want." She rises on her toes, pressing her mouth to mine.
Slow and deep and full of promise. When she pulls back, she's smiling.
"But first, I need sleep. Real sleep, without worrying about explosions or mercenaries or whether you're going to get yourself killed playing bait. "
I see everything I need in her eyes. The fear she carried tonight, the relief that I'm here, the commitment to whatever we're building.
"I love you," I say quietly. Not a declaration. Just truth.
Her smile softens, and something in her expression shifts. "I love you too."
"Deal." I start pulling off my clothing, every muscle reminding me we've been running for days straight. "Sleep first. Future second."
We collapse into bed together, and Isabella immediately curls against my side. Within minutes her breathing evens out, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I lie awake longer, staring at the ceiling of my renovated bedroom suite in my family's mansion in the city I swore I'd never return to. With a woman I never expected to find and a future I'm choosing instead of just surviving.
Tomorrow we'll figure out details. Partnership with Luc, Isabella's academic career, whatever this life is going to look like beyond explosions and extractions.
But tonight, I'm just home. Finally, actually home.
Isabella is asleep, but I lie awake watching moonlight move across unfamiliar-familiar walls. My phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. No mission briefings. No extraction orders. No next target waiting in some encrypted file.
For the first time in years, I'm choosing my own path. Not running from Cerberus, not cutting ties, just stepping off the operational treadmill to build something that's mine. Fitz's words echo in my head—the door stays open, always. Family doesn't end.
But I'm not walking through that door unless I choose to. And that makes all the difference.
The freedom should feel lighter. Instead, it feels like standing at a cliff edge. Exhilarating and terrifying and impossible to step back from.