Extended Epilogue
IRIS
Five years later…
"Mama, Lily took my crayon!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
I press my fingers to my temples and stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. The last paragraph of my manuscript sits unfinished, words hovering just out of reach while chaos erupts around me.
Mason, my two-year-old, waddles over and dumps a bucket of wooden blocks at my feet. They scatter across the hardwood with a deafening clatter.
"Tower, Mama. Build tower."
"Just a few more minutes, baby." I scoop him onto my lap, type one-handed while he squirms. "Mama's almost done."
"You're not listening!" Kurt stomps his foot. "Lily?—"
"Kurt, she can use the red one when you're finished."
"But I need it now!"
My phone buzzes. My editor. Again. I close my eyes and count to three, then five, then?—
The front door opens.
"Daddy!" Three voices shriek in unison. Mason launches himself off my lap and joins his siblings in their stampede toward the entryway.
Ivan appears in the doorway, still in his work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with muscle and ink. His presence alone shifts the air. He crouches and catches all three kids in one smooth motion, lifting Kurt and Lily while Mason clings to his leg.
"Alright, squad. Who wants to help me make lunch?"
"Me!"
"Me too!"
"Blocks, Daddy!"
He meets my gaze over their heads, one eyebrow raised. "How much more?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."
"Take thirty." He hefts Kurt higher on his hip. "We're making grilled cheese. Possibly destroying the kitchen in the process."
The chaos migrates toward the kitchen, volume only slightly diminished. I can breathe again.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. The final scene pours out—my heroine and her stepbrother turned husband, their forbidden love transformed into something fierce and permanent. It's ours. All of it. Every stolen moment, every whispered confession.
I type the last word. Save. Close the laptop.
Done.
Ivan leans against the doorframe when I emerge, arms crossed. "Finished?"
"Yeah." I push my curls back, suddenly aware of the dried spit-up on my shoulder, the yoga pants I've worn for three days straight. "I'm fine."
His eyes narrow. "You look exhausted."
"Thanks."
I slip past him into the bathroom. The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize—dark circles, pulled-back hair, skin that hasn't seen even just powder in weeks.
I lift my shirt, study the soft pouch of my stomach, the silvery stretch marks webbing across my hips.
My breasts hang heavy, fuller than they used to be but lower too.
I bite my lip. Hard.
"Gorgeous."
I spin. Ivan fills the doorway, gaze dark and hungry.
"I'm not. Look at me."
"I am looking." He closes the distance, cages me against the sink. His palm spreads warm across my stomach. "This body fed our children. Fed me."
"Ivan—"
"You're more beautiful now than the day I met you in our parents' wedding." His thumb traces a stretch mark, reverent. "Every line, every curve. You think I don't see you? I see everything."
"I don't believe you."
His jaw tightens. "Then let me prove it."
He kisses me like he's starving, hands sliding beneath my waistband. I gasp against his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt.
"The kids?—"
"Eating grilled cheese and watching cartoons." His breath is hot against my throat. "We have thirty minutes."
"We can't?—"
"We can." He lifts me onto the counter, steps between my thighs. "I love you more now than ever. Believe that."
I pull him closer, finally believing.