Epilogue
IVAN
One year later…
The baby monitor crackles as I ease Lily's door shut, her soft breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep.
My daughter—the words still hit different every time, punch straight through my chest and settle warm and heavy behind my ribs.
Four months old and she's already got my dark hair, Iris's amber eyes. Perfect.
I pad down the hall in socks, rolling my shoulders to work out the tension from holding a squirming infant who fights sleep like it's a personal offense. The house settles around us, quiet except for the click of Iris's keyboard from the living room.
She's curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, one of my hoodies swallowing her frame.
Her laptop balances on her thighs, screen glow painting her face in blue-white light.
Curls tumble over one shoulder, and she's chewing her bottom lip—that tell that means she's deep in whatever assignment her professor dumped on her this week.
Homeschooling made sense. She couldn't exactly show up to college lectures with a newborn strapped to her chest, and online classes let her work around Lily's schedule.
Plus her writing—the romance novel she started during pregnancy—has been picking up traction.
Her editor wants revisions by month's end.
I drop onto the couch beside her, pull my phone from my pocket.
"She down?" Iris doesn't look up, fingers flying across keys.
"Finally. Took three rounds of that lullaby she likes."
"The one you made up or the actual song?"
"The made-up one. She's got taste."
That earns me a smile, brief but genuine, before she refocuses on her screen. I unlock my phone, pull up the news aggregator I've kept pinned since the trial wrapped.
The headline loads, and satisfaction curls through my gut like smoke.
Former Student Sentenced to Eight Years Following Failed Appeal
I skim the article. The details are familiar—assault charges, attempted influence peddling by his parents, the judge's scathing remarks about privilege and accountability.
His family threw everything at this. High-powered attorneys, media spin doctors, carefully placed donations to the right political campaigns.
They didn't know I've been building connections since law school. That every pro bono case I took, every favor I called in, every quiet conversation over expensive scotch in wood-paneled offices, was insurance for moments like this.
His parents thought money and status would save him.
I made sure it didn't.
"What're you reading?" Iris glances over, curiosity softening her features.
"News." I tilt the screen toward her.
Her eyes track across the headline. Something shifts in her expression—relief, maybe, or vindication. She exhales slow, sets her laptop aside.
"Eight years."
"Minimum. Could be longer with good behavior violations." I lock my phone, toss it onto the coffee table. "His parents burned through their credibility trying to make this disappear."
"You made sure of that."
It's not a question. She knows. She's always known how far I'll go to protect what's mine.
"Yeah." No point in denying it. "I did."
Iris shifts closer, tucks herself against my side. Her hand finds mine, fingers threading through. Warm. Steady.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me for that." I cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing the soft skin behind her ear. "He tried to hurt you, and I promised you I'll always protect you and I always protect what's mine."
She tips her head back, amber eyes holding mine. "I love you."
"I love you, too." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Always will."
Iris leans against me for another heartbeat, then reaches for her laptop, fingers already seeking the keyboard.
"You happy?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "I mean—with all this. With me."
Her hands pause mid-reach. She turns, eyebrows drawing together.
"Of course I am. Why would you?—"
"Just making sure." I scrub a hand through my hair, fighting the familiar restlessness that claws up my spine whenever doubt creeps in. "You gave up a lot. Normal college experience, parties, dating?—"
"Ivan." She shifts to face me fully, laptop forgotten. "I don't want any of that. I never did."
"You're nineteen. You should be?—"
"Happy?" Her mouth quirks. "I am happy. Ridiculously, stupidly happy.
" She takes my hand again, presses it flat against her chest where I can feel her heartbeat and some wetness.
She's probably leaking milk again. I wet my lips, but this isn't the right time.
She's busy. "I get to be Lily's mom. I get to write stories that people actually want to read.
I get to wake up next to you every morning.
" Her voice drops softer. "How could I regret any of this? "
The tension in my shoulders eases. I pull her closer, bury my face in her curls. She smells like baby powder and vanilla and home.
"Good." I press a kiss to her temple. "Because I don't regret a single thing. Not one damn second, and I don't think I can just let you go."
"I know you don't." Her fingers trace patterns on my forearm, idle and affectionate. "You tell me constantly."
"Just want to be sure you feel the same."
"I do." She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "I promise I do. I have everything I want. Well, almost everything?—"
She cuts herself off, teeth catching her bottom lip.
"Almost?" I tilt my head. "What's missing?"
"Nothing." Too quick. She reaches for her laptop again. "I should finish this chapter before Lily wakes up for her next feeding."
I catch her wrist gently, stop her retreat. "Iris. What is it?"
"It's nothing. Really." Pink creeps across her cheeks. "I'm being silly."
"Tell me anyway."
She won't look at me, gaze dropping to where my thumb brushes circles against her pulse point. Her shoulders hunch slightly, defensive and uncertain in equal measure.
"I just—sometimes I think about—" She stops. Starts again. "When I write wedding scenes in my book, I imagine—" Another pause. Her voice goes smaller. "Never mind. It's stupid."
"It's not stupid." I release her wrist, reach into my pocket. The velvet box has been there for three weeks, burning a hole through denim every damn day while I waited for the perfect moment.
Turns out the perfect moment is right now. Her in my hoodie, laptop balanced on the couch, our daughter sleeping down the hall. Nothing grandiose about it.
Everything right about it.
I pull the box free, flip it open with my thumb.
Iris's breath catches. Her eyes go wide, amber flooding with tears as she stares at the ring—simple platinum band, single diamond that catches the light from her laptop screen.
"I had this whole plan." My voice comes out rough. "Reservation at that restaurant downtown you like. Rose petals, champagne, the works. Kept waiting for the right time, the perfect setup." I shake my head. "But this is better. Just us. No performance, no bullshit."
"Ivan—"
"Let me finish." I shift, take her left hand in mine.
Her fingers tremble against my palm. "You gave me everything I never knew I needed.
A daughter. A family. A reason to come home every night that isn't just obligation or routine.
" I meet her eyes, hold them. "I want forever with you, Iris.
Legal. Official. No more hiding behind 'complicated' when people ask what we are. "
Tears spill down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away.
"I know we're already committed. Ring doesn't change what we have. But I want you to have it anyway. Want everyone to see it and know you're mine. That I'm yours." I pull the ring from its cushion, hold it poised at the tip of her finger. "Marry me."
"Yes." The word breaks on a sob. "Yes, yes—God, yes."
I slide the ring home. Perfect fit. It sits on her finger like it was always meant to be there, platinum bright against her cream-and-honey skin.
Iris launches herself at me, laptop tumbling to the floor as she crashes into my chest. Her arms lock around my neck, face buried against my shoulder while she cries and laughs in equal measure.
I wrap her up tight, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other splayed across her spine. She's shaking, or maybe I am—hard to tell where I end and she begins.
"I love you." She gasps it against my throat. "I love you so much."
"I love you to, baby."