Epilogue
Carnival Always Returns: No matter the disruption—war, storm, or ordinance—New Orleans krewes inevitably begin planning the next season almost as soon as one ends. The continuity of Carnival reflects a collective commitment to tradition, proving that even paused pageantry is rarely permanent.
Caroline kicks the back of my seat, babbling at something only she understands, while Keller shifts the car into park and cuts the engine.
“Home sweet home,” he says.
I look at the house through the windshield. I love the pale brick, the wide porch, and tall windows that catch the late afternoon light. An oak tree stretches across the front yard, welcoming us with open arms.
“It’s ours,” I say.
We’ve spent the last year pretending we were easing into things. His clothes are in my closet, and my laptop is on his kitchen counter. Toothbrushes in both bathrooms. Caroline has been crawling across both living rooms like she owned them.
On paper, we were separate. In practice, he’s been at my house almost every night since she was born.
It was too small for three people. Too small for the life we're building. So, we made the decision exactly two months ago to start looking for a house, for something that's ours together.
I found this one on my first night going down the real estate rabbit hole. Have I mentioned I'm good at rabbit holes?
But we did the responsible thing and considered many others. We always came back to this one.
Keller gets out first and comes around to unbuckle Caroline. She launches herself at him with zero hesitation, hands fisting in his shirt as if she’s been waiting all day.
“Easy,” he murmurs, settling her on his hip. “You’re going to wear a path in that driveway before we even move in.”
I step out and walk to the front door.
He pauses beside me, but he doesn’t take the keys.
“You do it,” he says.
I smile at him and then put the key in the doorknob, unlocking the door.
The house smells like fresh paint and new wood. Wide-plank floors stretch toward the back wall of glass that overlooks the river. The Mississippi slides past, brown and powerful and steady in a way that is oddly reassuring.
Caroline wriggles down from his arms and wobbles forward, arms out for balance, her diapered bottom swaying with determination. She's been walking now for almost two months, getting steadier every day.
She laughs at the echo of her own voice in the empty space.
“Careful,” I warn automatically.
Keller follows a step behind her, not hovering, just close enough.
I move farther inside, taking in the open kitchen, the staircase, the way the light pools near the windows that look out over the patio and the fenced yard. There’s a pool beyond that, already secured, already inspected twice because I insisted.
“This will work,” I say quietly.
He comes up behind me, one hand settling at my waist like it belongs there. It does.
“It's perfect, just like you,” he answers.
Caroline makes a triumphant sound and drops to her hands and knees, crawling toward the hallway.
We both move at the same time.
He reaches her first, scooping her up before she can veer into a wall. She squeals in protest and then dissolves into laughter, pressing her sticky hands against his face.
“You’re fearless,” he tells her.
I watch them in the empty living room that won’t stay empty for long. Furniture will come. Toys will scatter. Noise will settle into the corners and stay there.
He looks up at me over her head.
I cross the room and slide my arm around both of them. For a long time, I thought control meant happiness. That if I kept everything structured, efficient, and predictable, nothing could knock it off balance. I built my life that way. Career first. Order first. Everything in clean lines.
This doesn’t look like that.
It’s louder and messier and less certain.
Some days, I still catch myself trying to manage it instead of living in it. Some days, I still want a plan for everything.
But I didn’t keep the door closed when he came knocking, even if it did take me a little time to remember these new mantras in my life.
Caroline pats his cheek with a sticky hand and then reaches for me, impatient and certain we both belong within arm’s reach.
He passes her over without hesitation.
“I love you,” he says as steady as ever.
“I love you, too.”
Caroline wedges herself between us, squirming and delighted, already trying to twist toward the hallway like she’s got somewhere to be.
Keller laughs and reaches for her before she can tip forward.
"You want to see your room?" He asks her, and she giggles wildly. He puts her down and grabs her hand as they walk.
Did you read Ridge’s book before this one? If not, it will give you more insight into their father’s murder and how the eldest Stone has to make difficult decisions to get to his HEA. Revenge, Kidnapping, and Enemies-to-Lovers will take you on a wild ride!
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PROLOGUE
It’s been a good night. Delphine is at the bar holding court, glowing from her art exhibit. I’m so proud of her.
“Text me when you get home,” someone calls after me as I push open the door.
“I will,” I reply, digging my keys out of my purse. “I promise.”
I slip my bag back on my shoulder as I walk down the two steps out of Indigo Blue. The last of the noise from the bar fades behind me as I step onto the sidewalk.
The October night air is cool against my skin, the kind that usually settles me after a long night, but something unrecognizable is off tonight. In my periphery, I catch movement. It’s subtle, more instinct than sound, and in an instant, it closes in on me.
I turn just as hands grab me from behind.
The breath punches out of my lungs as I’m pulled off balance, my first shout cutting sharply into the night before a strong hand clasps over my mouth. I twist hard, elbowing back on instinct, catching solid resistance instead of empty air.
I try to dig my heels in, but I’m already being redirected, guided away from the street with efficient force that leaves no room for negotiation.
My heart hammers as the sidewalk disappears beneath my feet and a dark vehicle comes into view, its door opening before I can process how quickly this is happening.
I’m shoved forward and land hard against leather, the impact jarring enough to knock the rest of my breath loose. The door slams shut behind me, sealing me inside. For a second, I’m all frantic motion, hands scrambling for the handle, nails scraping uselessly against locked metal.
Then I look over to see a man sitting next to me, already in the vehicle.
He’s calm in a way that doesn’t make sense given what’s unfolding. He doesn’t rush or shout or react to the chaos of me. He watches, his attention fixed and assessing, like he’s already ten steps past this moment.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, the words slicing like razorblades. He is a statue. I punch at the window, trying to open the handle with no luck.
He doesn’t say a word. That’s when the fear really takes hold.
I lash out, kicking hard, my heel connecting with his shin. The reaction I expect doesn’t come. My hand comes up next, aiming for his face, and he catches my wrists with infuriating ease, pinning my arms before I can land a single clean hit.
“Let me go,” I snap, twisting against his grip.
“You can stop fighting,” he says evenly, his voice level in a way that makes my stomach drop. “Or you can make this more difficult than it has to be.”
I kick again, harder this time, panic bleeding through my anger as I realize how little it’s affecting him. Something presses over my mouth and nose, fabric rough against my skin, carrying a sharp, unfamiliar scent that makes my chest seize.
His hand slides to the back of my head as the cloth seals over my mouth and nose. I try to shake my head, but I’m suddenly very sleepy, like I’m wading through mud.
“No,” I gasp, the word muffled and useless. “No—”
My lungs burn as I fight for air, confusion crashing into fear as my strength falters. The edges of everything start to blur, my body turning heavy and uncooperative in a way that doesn’t make sense.
The last thing I register clearly is his face, before the world slips sideways and goes dark.
CHAPTER 1
The Warehouse District: Situated between the French Quarter and the Mississippi River, it blends its 19th-century industrial roots with modern revitalization, featuring art galleries, luxury apartments, and trendy restaurants.
In its shadowed corners, crime and homelessness persist, creating dangerous pockets where businesses shutter, and the city’s darker underbelly thrives.
Two nights earlier
Wells and Keller are trading laughs across the table, loud enough to carry over the clinking of glasses and the low hum of the bar. They’ve always been better at unwinding than I am.
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, my thoughts nowhere near here. Being the oldest of six brothers means I’m already in the business, already carrying weight, already expected to take over one day, whether I want that responsibility or not.
Unlike the others, I don’t get to shut it off. While they drink, I’m still tracking shipments, schedules, bottlenecks. I’ve spent years at my father’s side, absorbing how Stone Intermodal actually runs, stepping in when he steps away, making decisions that don’t wait for tomorrow.
My father named me Executive Vice President two years ago, but the title barely matters. What matters is that I’m the one who sits beside him, learning how decisions ripple through the ports, how one delay turns into ten, how mistakes don’t stay contained.
I don’t inherit it someday. I’m already living with it.
Most of my brothers do something adjacent to the import/export business. But I’m the one who works most closely with our father in the industry and understands how our ports actually function. I know customs schedules, labor contracts, inspections, and the pressure points no one outside ever sees.