Epilogue
Rose
Spring didn’t arrive until almost May. It never comes all at once in New England.
The snow melted slowly, clinging to shaded patches long after it should have, until the last traces finally disappeared.
The ground softened as the cold air lost its bite, one beautiful sunrise at a time.
Nature was beginning again. And somehow, so were we.
Dr. Somersworth finally got what he deserved. The slight change in Dr. Flores' tone told me everything I needed to know about how he felt toward the late doctor. “Maxwell will recover,” he said in his usual controlled and measured voice.
Lucinda, too. At least physically. But I know better than most that the worst wounds are the ones the world can’t see.
The rest, I guess, will take longer. Maxwell killed his father.
It was deemed self-defense. That’s what the report said, and that’s what the police concluded after they found everything.
The cabin. The restraints. The graves.
More victims were buried in the woods behind it, their graves concealed by years of meticulous planning.
It was all calculated by a girl who just wanted to be seen by a man who taught her the worst way to exist. And then there are people like us—those who have to live in the aftermath of it all.
We’re all just trying to survive in the chaos they left behind.
I still think about Chelsea sometimes. Not the version at the end, but the one from before.
The one who smiled easily and tried too hard to be everyone’s friend.
The peacemaker who wanted to belong so badly that she broke everything around her.
It doesn’t excuse anything, but it makes me wonder what she would’ve been like if things were different.
The beagle we found tied to a tree survived.
She’s a stubborn little thing. Watson took to her immediately.
Maybe he understood something about her.
Giving Watson a companion was unexpected, but it somehow felt right.
She’s a reminder that sometimes good can come from something terrible. We named her Mercy.
Alex accepted the job with Uncle Jameson, overseeing cybersecurity for Uncle Eduardo's club. He may be part of the family business, but we stay out of the parts of the business we shouldn’t be in. That was a condition set by his father, and Uncle Eduardo stood by it.
I love it here. After graduating from medical school, I started my residency in Houston, which is what convinced me to accept the move in the first place.
His family has become mine, and somewhere between Sunday dinners, family chaos, and more cousins than I can keep track of, I found the place I was always searching for.
We found out Chelsea was the one stalking Lizah, and now everything has come full circle. Lizah even married her on-and-off-again boyfriend. We were invited to the wedding, but graciously declined. I have my limits when it comes to being a supportive girlfriend.
I stand in our kitchen, barefoot against the cool tile, my hair still damp from my shower.
Having just finished a late shift at the hospital, a thin layer of exhaustion clings to me, but I’m still smiling.
Residency has started to take its toll, but I love it.
Even on the hardest days, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
For the first time in a long time, nothing feels urgent. I lean against the counter while Alex moves around the kitchen. He's trying to look like he knows what he's doing, but I can tell he's completely winging it.
“You’re hovering,” he says without looking at me.
“I’m observing,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he drains the pasta. “For the record, I can cook.”
I don’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or me. “You boiled water.”
“Details.”
I smile despite myself and push off the counter, moving to sit at our small table by the window. The city vibrates with life below as headlights streak across the streets. When he brings the food over, I notice right away that there’s only one plate.
“This wasn’t intentional,” he says, already knowing what I’m thinking.
“Of course it wasn’t,” I play along.
There's a moment where we both just look at it, remembering that day in his townhouse when I cooked dinner for him.
There was only one plate then, too, and we shared a dish of spaghetti.
It was simple. Nothing special. Yet somehow, it became one of those moments that changed everything between us.
We both reach for the same strand at the same time, and I almost laugh because I know it's probably intentional. He never could resist making me smile.
“Don’t,” I say, but there’s no real warning to it as I try my hardest not to laugh.
“Too late,” he murmurs.
The distance between us closes slowly, naturally, until our lips meet. I laugh against his mouth as he slurps the last piece of spaghetti, splashing garlicky butter across my cheek.
“That was terrible,” I say, laughing.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
Neither of us moves right away. We just sit there together, neither of us in any hurry to break the moment. Maybe that's enough.
As I look at him, I can't help thinking about everything it took for us to get here.
I think we would have found one another no matter what.
Maybe not in the same way, not through the same series of events, but somehow, I would have ended up here, sitting across from him at this same table, knowing exactly what we are to each other.
It feels like something that was always there, waiting for us to catch up to it, pulling us together even when everything tried to get in the way.
I used to think safe meant predictable. That choosing someone like Maxwell meant choosing the stable, dependable kind of relationship. But that kind of safety was never real. It was something I convinced myself I could control.
Alex was never that. And somehow, he became the only place that’s ever felt certain. Real safety isn’t about control. It’s about trust. And with him I finally understand the difference.
His hand lifts to my face, fingers brushing along my jaw as his thumb traces the curve of my cheek. I lean into his touch without thinking, more instinct now without any hesitation.
“Long day?” he asks.
“They’re all long,” I say softly, “but good.”
He nods and steps closer, closing the space between us until there's none left. For a moment, neither of us says anything. We simply hold each other, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It's enough.
I don't wait this time. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer because I need the contact as much as he does.
The kiss isn't desperate anymore. It isn't driven by fear or the possibility of losing each other.
It's slow and familiar, filled with everything we've survived to get here.
He pulls me closer, his hand sliding to my waist, holding me there as though he still needs proof that I'm real. I exhale softly against his mouth.
“I'm still here,” I whisper, because I know what he's needs to hear.
“Always,” he says.
The way he says it makes my chest constrict because we both know how close that came to being untrue.
I pull back just enough to look up at him.
He dips his head until our foreheads meet.
There's no fear or doubt left between us now.
Only that same connection we've always shared, stronger than ever.
“Do you ever think it was fate?” he murmurs.
I don't answer right away. Instead, I reach for him, my hands finding his face as though I need to remind myself he's real. I kiss him softly, slowly, letting everything I've never been able to put into words pass between us.
When I pull back, I smile. “I think we were always going to find each other.”
He studies me for a long moment before his hand slides beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly.
I wrap my legs around his waist, settling against him like I was always meant to be there.
His mouth finds mine again as he carries me to our bedroom, neither of us willing to put even an inch of distance between us.
As he lowers me onto the bed, every touch feels different now.
Less desperate, less afraid. His body moves with mine as though we've learned one another by heart.
When the world narrows to nothing but us, he never lets me go.
Even afterward, he keeps holding me, our skin damp with sweat as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
I look up at him, raw and exposed in every possible way, and feel it all over again. That undeniable pull. That impossible certainty. Something in me knew him long before we ever met. Something in me would have found him anyway.
Some connections don't begin the day you meet. They survive every detour, every loss, and every impossible circumstance until they finally lead you to the person you were always meant to find.
Once, I thought loving me would damn him. I never imagined I'd choose that same fate for myself. I wouldn't walk away from him, even if I could. Because I know I was destined to find him, and I'll always be damned to love him.
The End