Epilogue
Jasmine
Eight Weeks Later
The penthouse doesn’t feel like shelter anymore. But home.
Our home.
It smells like us—like the sandalwood candle I light every evening and the pine of Nathan’s skin, like miso and ginger and yuzu from the menu I obsessed over all afternoon.
There are new plants sunning themselves along the windows, my pretty journals and note-cards tucked between his first editions, a woven throw at the end of the couch that he pretends not to like and always steals anyway.
The locked guest room down the hall is still… locked. He keeps the key in his pocket, and every time I ask, his mouth does that secretive curve that makes my stomach flip.
We’ve been home a week from our honeymoon in Japan, and I still catch myself staring at him like he’s a temple I get to pray at.
In the mornings, he grumbles at the French press until I take over; at night, I fall asleep with his hand splayed over my belly, like he’s protecting a wish that has come true already. That I have to tell him yet.
Tonight is our first dinner as a married couple. My first, ever. I’m trying not to vibrate right out of my skin.
The elevator dings and voices spill in.
Sasha arrives with Zayn, and she’s glowing—truly glowing—in a way even the pendant lights can’t compete with. Mariska’s right behind them in a sunshine-yellow dress that smells like sugar and fried dough the second the door closes.
Adam lopes in with a bakery box and a put-upon scowl that’s almost definitely hiding something smug.
Sophie breezes in last with Max on her heels, and the temperature of the room drops ten degrees. She moved out right as we left for our honeymoon, not to college but to a studio apartment in the same building that houses Grayson Inc. Where Nathan, Zayn and Max work.
Not too far for Nathan’s peace of mind but far enough to matter to Sophie.
An arrangement that I call my ‘personal diplomatic achievement’, for I used the last ounce of my patience to work as a bridge between father and daughter.
Now, Sophie’s job as Max’s assistant... I’m not sure what to think of that. Sophie can’t stand the man.
“Third assistant,” she mutters to me under her breath, blue eyes slicing sideways at him. “I will poison him. Slowly.”
“Don’t,” I whisper back, fighting a laugh. “It’s manslaughter if it’s quick.”
Nathan passes me with a hand low at my back, the briefest graze that steadies everything inside me. “You’re doing great, baby girl,” he murmurs, and I pretend not to melt as he moves on to greet Zayn with a shoulder clasp that looks like affection disguised as a brawl.
Dinner smells like our honeymoon—miso-glazed salmon, cold soba noodles with sesame, and a bright fennel-orange salad. On the side, roasted shishito peppers and skewers of chicken keep it casual, family-style.
Conversation hums and pings.
Sasha smiles, one hand on the gentle swell of her belly, accepting coos and threats to kidnap the baby by Mariska and me. Zayn pretends he’s not watching her every breath. Mariska and Adam “accidentally” reach for the same knife twice.
“How’s the new job?” I ask Sophie, sliding her a little dish of pickled cucumbers.
She twirls her fork like she’s dispatching an enemy. “Dad’s punishing me for wanting to move out,” she stage-whispers. “Why else would he find me a job with Max?” She shudders and then laughs. “I start Monday. Pray for him.”
“Can confirm,” Max says dryly from the far end. “I accept thoughts and prayers.”
Laughter warms the room. It rolls over the art on the walls, over the framed picture of the three of us from last Christmas that Nathan moved to the entry table where everyone can see it now.
Life’s been…wonderful. I keep waiting for the universe to tap its watch and tell me to be reasonable. Instead, Nathan keeps handing me more of his heart and all the keys.
“Alright,” Zayn says. He tilts his chin at me, eyes wicked. “What did my brother give you as a wedding present, Jazz? Because I—”
“Zayn,” Sasha warns, amusement tugging her mouth.
“—I bought an entire bookstore,” he finishes, smug.
Heat climbs my neck. I glance at Nathan. He only sips his whiskey, gray eyes unreadable. The last few weeks have been nothing but a gift—his ring on my finger, his name on my lips, mornings tangled in white sheets—so it truly doesn’t occur to me to care. I open my mouth to deflect—
“Looks like you’re already losing to him, Nate,” Adam chimes in, purely to stir.
“Absolutely not.” Nathan’s deadpan lands like velvet over steel. He sets his glass down, takes my hand, and lifts it to his mouth. His kiss lands at the base of my ring finger, deliberate enough to make my knees go unreliable. “Happy two-month anniversary, wife.”
Sophie fake-gags. Mariska claps. Zayn mutters something about performative romance and then grins like a thief. Sasha’s eyes go soft. Max’s mouth twitches, which is basically a parade.
Nathan straightens and flicks a look at the hallway. “Since my brother is flying high on the idea that he cornered the market on grand gestures,” he says, voice mild, “why don’t we take a little tour?”
He moves first, and somehow all that CEO gravity herds everyone without a ripple. We drift past the art and the plants and the quiet pool of light at our bedroom door, right up to the locked guest room that’s been teasing me for days.
He pauses, looks down at me—checking, always, even when he’s sure—and slides a key into the lock. The door swings open.
It’s a studio.
Not a “throw a mic on a desk” studio—but a cathedral for sound. Warm oak floors. Dimmable sconces washing honey-light over charcoal acoustic panels set in precise patterns.
A glassed-in vocal booth with a floating floor, its own tiny galaxy of LEDs. Inside it—a Neumann mounted in a shock mount with a curved reflection filter, a pop screen at the perfect distance, an adjustable stool I can already feel under my palms.
Outside: a sleek desk with two massive monitors and a touch-screen DAW, an Apollo interface glinting like jewelry, twin near fields on isolation pads, a soft-arm lamp with a brass dimmer I instinctively reach to touch.
There’s a velvet chaise in the corner (of course there is), a carafe and two glasses on a side table, a tiny, framed print that says breathe low and slow in a serif script that matches the gold plate on the door: Jasmine Grayson Studio.
I rub my fingers over the metal grain. My breath leaves me like someone punched a sob out of my ribs. “Oh my God,” I whisper, hand flying to my mouth.
Sasha steps closer to the glass. “It’s a recording studio, folks. Because Jazz is an audiobook narrator.”
I bow to impressed sounds.
“Good job, Dad,” Sophie says with a wide smile.
“I—Nathan, you didn’t have to.” Tears prick; my voice goes thin.
“You know I don’t like the idea of you going to seedy areas just for the recording studio,” he says.
I gasp and laugh. “You send me everywhere in a tinted limo with a security guard from Adam’s company,” I say, pointing at the quiet, bear of a man.
He even escorted me once when they were short of personnel.
“People look at me like I’m some depraved politician’s mistress every time I show up at a studio. ”
Laughter breaks. “You’re precious cargo, baby girl,” Nathan says.
The men gag and leave, making exaggerated faces. The women laugh, their giggles trailing after them as they follow, leaving us alone.
I step over the threshold like it’s holy, trailing my fingers over the console, the smooth edge of the desk, the brass dimmer, the curve of the reflection filter. Everything hums under my skin. Everything smells faintly of new wood and promise.
Nathan steps up behind me, his warmth wrapping around me before his arms do. The faint starch of his shirt brushes my skin as he cages me against the desk. His hands span my stomach, palms heavy and reverent.
“Do you like it?” His voice is a low rasp at my ear, rough from the whiskey he sipped after dinner.
“I love it,” I whisper, throat tight.
A studio like this? It’s more than I ever dreamed of. And somehow, he still makes it feel like I’m the one who gave him everything.
“What’s my present?” he asks like an eager little boy. God, I adore all the different facets of him I learn as his wife. His partner. His soulmate.
I laugh and press my palm on top of his. “Twins.”
For a second, he’s still. Stunned. “What?”
“I think it happened the first time on Whidbey Island. We’re going to have twins.”
He turns, kisses me, wonder breaking across his face. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive. Wait till I tell my brother that my competent-as-fuck girl is baking two, not one.”
I laugh even as he pushes me deeper into the room and closes the door behind us. “Nathan, we have guests, and this is my first dinner party. We haven’t even served dessert yet.”
“I want my own dessert,” he says, sinking to his knees and tugging up the hem of my dress. “And it’s soundproofed, little bird. Don’t you think we should give it a try? We can christen it like we did every other room.”
“Will you make it quick, Daddy?” I murmur, leaning back against the desk.
“Never, baby girl.” His voice is a vow just before he pulls my thong aside and buries his face in my core.
A shiver ripples through me, half panic, half need. My palms slap the desk behind me for balance. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re perfect,” he growls, nudging at my clit with his tongue. “And mine.”
I gasp when he spears my entrance with his tongue, his broad hands pinning me open as if nothing outside this room matters.
Not the clink of wineglasses in the dining room, not the chatter of our friends.
Just us.
The faint hum of the studio equipment mixes with my ragged breaths, the padded walls cocooning us in decadent secrecy.
When I manage a laugh between broken whispers, it’s equal parts disbelief and joy. “You’re going to ruin me, Mr. Grayson.”
He glances up, eyes molten. “No, Mrs. Grayson. I’m going to love you. Twice over.” His thumbs press against my hips, reverent. “Just like the family you’re giving me.”
And as he bends his head again, I know with perfect, bone-deep certainty that I’ll never need another gift as long as I have him.
Thank you so much for reading Jasmine and Nathan’s insta-love romance!