Epilogue
Natalie
One year later, I have learned that peace does not always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes peace is a blocked phone number.
Wesley tried calling me after he called off the wedding. I did not answer, and after the fifth call, I blocked him. There are many ways to heal, but I highly recommend the tiny button that makes a bad decision stop vibrating in your hand.
My mother and Lydia apologized eventually.
It took almost a year.
They cried. They explained. They softened their voices and called it a terrible misunderstanding, which was a very polite way to describe blaming me for Wesley’s choices and nearly slapping me in a hotel dining room.
I accepted the apology because I wanted the fighting to end.
I still do not know if I forgave them.
We have peace now, but it is the kind of peace that keeps distance.
We speak on birthdays, holidays, and family emergencies.
My mother asks how I am, then asks how Jordan is.
Lydia sends polite texts with too many exclamation points.
Their kindness became warmer once they understood Jordan Richmond was not a temporary scandal, and warmer still when they realized being kind to me might keep them close to his name, his money, and his world.
That used to hurt. Now it only tells me I was right to build a life somewhere else, with my husband and Vivienne.
Jordan’s mother kept her promise. She loved me like a daughter before I even knew how to accept it. She calls me darling, sends soup if I sneeze twice, and has bought enough baby clothes to dress a small, stylish army.
I no longer work as Jordan’s secretary either.
I run the Richmond Foundation now, and part of our work overlaps with the Damned Saints in a way no one puts in glossy brochures.
The Saints take care of most of the women they pull out of places no one should ever have to survive, but when they are overwhelmed, when there are too many beds needed and too many lives to rebuild at once, the foundation steps in.
Housing. Therapy. Training. Jobs. Locked doors. Safe rooms. New starts.
Some days break my heart.
Some days put it back together.
Today is one of the good ones.
I am six months pregnant, sitting on the nursery rug in our house with tiny clothes folded around me, when Jordan appears in the doorway.
His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled. His eyes move from me to the tiny socks in my hand, then to the open drawers around me.
“Natalie.”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“You’re going to say the baby does not need this many socks.”
His gaze drops to the drawer. “The baby does not need this many socks.”
“He has feet, Jordan.”
“Two.”
“Small feet get cold.”
“Not that cold.”
I place a hand over my stomach. “Your father is being difficult.”
Jordan’s mouth softens.
The baby kicks.
He crosses the room and lowers himself to the rug in front of me, his hand spreading over my belly with the same careful reverence that still makes my throat tight.
“There he is,” he murmurs.
“He likes your voice.”
“He has good taste.”
“He also kicks my ribs at three in the morning.”
Jordan looks up at me. “That part is from you.”
I gasp. “I am delicate.”
“You are terrifying.”
I smile. “You married me.”
“I know.”
His voice changes on those two words. Like he would do it again in every possible life.
He shifts closer and pulls me carefully into his lap. His arms close around me, one hand resting over our son.
This house is quiet, but it does not feel empty. It feels like it is waiting for noise. For our baby. For the big family we whisper about at night. For birthdays, bedtime stories, muddy shoes, and Vivienne arriving “just for tea” with three bags of gifts and no intention of leaving before dinner.
Jordan kisses my temple. “Happy?”
The question is soft, but I hear everything inside it.
Are you safe?
Are you loved?
Did I keep my promise?
I cover his hand with mine.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Very.”
His arms tighten.
“Good.”
“Love you.”
“Love you back.”
THE END