Chapter 69
sixty-nine
Liana
The cursor blinks. Steady. Patient. Waiting.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment longer than they need to, not because I don’t know what comes next, but because I do.
Because I know exactly what this moment is.
I exhale slowly.
Then type... The End.
The words settle onto the screen, small and simple and entirely inadequate for what they actually hold.
For a second, I just stare at them and something inside me… shifts.
Like something that’s been clenched for so long I forgot it was there has finally… let go.
This isn’t just the end of a book.
It’s the end of it.
Of everything that’s been sitting inside me, heavy and tangled and unfinished, the fear, the anger, the grief, the shame, the way it felt to be taken, to be broken, to be put back together piece by piece by hands that refused to let me disappear.
It’s all there. Every part of it.
Bled into the pages. Given shape. Given meaning, and now it’s not trapped inside me anymore.
My chest rises slowly, my breath catching just a little as I lean back in the chair, my hand drifting instinctively to my stomach.
“I did it,” I whisper.
Not to anyone.
Just… to myself.
Because I needed to hear it.
I did it.
A soft, almost disbelieving laugh slips out of me, and I shake my head slightly, reaching forward to save the document like I’m anchoring it in reality.
It’s done.
And I know, I know, this book is different.
This isn’t something I wrote to escape. This is something I wrote to survive, and something in my gut tells me this one is going to change everything.
My email tab is still open when I switch over.
I almost close it without looking. Almost. But something makes me pause.
Curiosity, maybe. Or instinct.
I click.
And blink.
Because, there are more emails than there should be. More than there ever are. My brows pull together slightly as I open the first one.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Agents.
Publishing houses.
Names I recognize.
Names I don’t.
All saying variations of the same thing.
We’d love to discuss representation…
We see strong market potential…
Your story has captured attention…
I lean back slowly, staring at the screen. A small, incredulous huff of laughter escapes me.
“Of course,” I murmur.
Of course this is when they show up. Not when I was building quietly. Not when I was fighting for every sale, every reader, every moment of recognition.
Now.
Now that my life has been dragged into the spotlight. Now that I’m visible in a way I never chose. Now I’m a financial opportunity.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I shake my head, closing the tab without replying to a single one.
“Not right now,” I say softly.
Because I don’t want that energy in this moment. I don’t want decisions. I don’t want strategy.
I just... I want to feel this.
To sit in it.
To have it.
So I close the laptop gently and push it aside.
Elijah is at the table, laptop open, focused. Already working. Already stepping into something new with that same quiet intensity he brings to everything.
I watch him for a moment.
The set of his shoulders.
The way his attention narrows onto whatever he’s reading, processing, controlling.
The weight of what he’s stepping into flickers through me briefly, the danger, the risk, the world he’s claiming, but it doesn’t settle the way it might have before.
Because I know him. Because I know what he’s capable of. Because I know that whatever comes, he will handle it.
And more importantly, he will keep me safe.
My chest softens at that.
I let my gaze linger for one more second before I turn away. Jackson is on the couch, exactly where I expect him to be, phone in hand, scrolling.
Relaxed in a way that’s never truly relaxed, like there’s always something moving under the surface with him, always something calculating, always something aware.
I walk over slowly, not announcing myself.
Just… stepping into his space.
My hands slide up around his neck from behind, as I lean down and press a soft kiss to his neck.
He hums quietly into it, one hand coming up automatically to thread through my hair.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
I linger for a second, then start to pull back.
“Don’t move.”
I blink.
“What?”
But he’s already lifting his phone, angling it slightly, his other hand tightening at my waist to hold me where I am as he snaps a photo.
I freeze instinctively.
“Jackson...”
He pulls the phone back, studying it.
And then, he grins.
“That’s perfect.”
I narrow my eyes slightly.
“What do you mean it’s perfect?”
He turns the screen slightly so I can see.
It’s not my face. Not really.
It’s him, his chest, his jawline, the edge of his mouth, and my arms around him. My hands at his chest.
Intimate.
Claiming.
Subtle.
“Oh my god,” I mutter.
He’s already typing.
“This is the one I want to put up.”
“Jackson.”
“My one and only,” he says, almost to himself as he finishes the caption.
Then he posts it.
Just like that. I stare at him.
“You’re ridiculous.”
He looks up at me, completely unbothered.
“I’ve got to post,” he shrugs. “But I’m upgrading.”
“To what?” I ask dryly.
He grins.
“Relationship traps.”
I let out a small laugh despite myself.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he says, tugging me down slightly so I’m closer to him again, “instead of thirst traps, I show people what they can’t have.”
I shake my head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth against mine. “But you love me.”
I smile into the kiss.
“I do.”
“Sit.”
Zach’s voice is gentle, but firm enough that I don’t even think about arguing.
I glance over as he approaches, already holding a cup of tea and a plate with something small on it.
“When did you...”
“Just now,” he replies easily, setting everything down before guiding me gently toward the couch.
“You need to eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t eaten properly today.”
I open my mouth. Then close it. Because he’s right. And he knows it.
I sit.
He hands me the tea first, waiting until I take a sip before passing me the plate.
“Good,” he murmurs.
He sits beside me then, his hand sliding to my stomach without hesitation, his touch warm, grounding, familiar.
“How are you feeling?” he asks softly. “How are my two girls today?”
My chest softens instantly as I try not to roll my eyes at the assumption the baby is a girl. God help these men if it turns out to be a boy.
“I’m good,” I say, quieter now. “We’re good.”
His thumb brushes slow circles over my stomach.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can see that.”
Jackson shifts closer on my other side, his arm draping loosely around my shoulders as he presses a quick kiss to my temple.
I lean back slightly, letting myself sink into it, into them, into the quiet rhythm of something that finally feels… steady.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
But real.
And as I sit there between them, Elijah at the table behind us, Zach’s hand still resting protectively over my stomach, Jackson’s arm warm around my shoulders, I feel it.
That quiet, undeniable sense that we’ve crossed something. That we’re not just surviving anymore.
We’re living.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like it’s going to be taken away.