Epilogue
One year later
Sunlight pours through the windows of our loft, not filtering through heavy velvet drapes or reflecting off cold marble, but illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the paint smudges on the floorboards.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Cillian murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
Before I can answer, he hooks an arm around my waist, effortlessly flipping us until he’s hovering over me.
He grins, that easy, unguarded smile that I never saw once in his childhood home, and lowers his head to press kisses along my jawline, down my neck, finding the ticklish spot near my collarbone that makes me squirm.
“I have to get up,” I protest, though my hands are already tangling in his messy hair to keep him close. “The hospital board meeting is at ten.”
“They can wait,” he mumbles against my skin. “The director loves you. You’re the reason they have that new wing.”
It’s true, though I still have trouble accepting the credit.
The expansion of the art therapy program has been a whirlwind.
After the article Bea and I wrote in that diner went viral, donations flooded in.
They weren’t just from the wealthy elite trying to buy influence, but from real people moved by the stories of the children we help.
Plus, my show at the Klein Gallery sold out in opening week, giving us the financial freedom to build this life on our own terms, without a single cent of Brown money.
Cillian pulls back to look at me, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones. He looks lighter than he did a year ago. The weight of the “Brown Legacy” is gone, replaced by the simple, messy reality of being his own man.
We don’t talk about his parents often, but their absence is a quiet peace in our lives.
The fallout from our exposé was swift and brutal.
The Governor, terrified of the bad press regarding the hospital grant, issued a scathing public statement distancing himself from Mary.
He denounced her “attempted interference” to save his own career, effectively exiling Mary Brown from the very society she spent her life curating.
I think of Arthur sometimes. He remains by her side in that empty, echoing mansion.
He is a kind man in his own way, gentle and well-meaning, but kindness without courage is just another form of compliance.
He didn’t have the strength to pull away, to choose himself or his son.
By staying, he made his choice, and because of that, Cillian hasn’t spoken to either of them since the night we left.
“Bea sent a text,” Cillian says, rolling onto his back and pulling me into his side. “She just landed a column at the Post. Apparently, her piece on political corruption in charities turned some heads.”
“She’s going to be amazing,” I say, smiling at the ceiling. Bea isn’t just surviving; she’s thriving, building a career in journalism built on the very voice Mary tried to silence.
Cillian tightens his arm around me. “We’re all going to be amazing. We already are.”
He shifts again, pulling me underneath him, his weight a grounding comfort. He kisses me deeply, slow and deliberate, erasing the last lingering shadows of the past.
“Happy Christmas, Star,” he whispers against my lips.
“Happy Christmas,” I answer, knowing that this time, in this home, the holiday belongs entirely to us.