Epilogue
KNOX
A few days later…
The TV flickers. Victor Calloway stands at a podium, cameras pointed at him like a firing squad. Behind him, the seal. The flags. The staging that says this matters.
Ivy sits between Roman and me, her hands folded tight in her lap. West leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on the screen. None of us has said a word since the broadcast started.
When the photos leaked, the headlines wrote themselves.
Senator's Daughter in Relationship with All Three Stepbrothers
No Boundaries: The Calloway Scandal
Victor Calloway's Campaign in Freefall After Family Photos Surface
Ivy hasn't left her apartment in days. We haven't let her. Not because we're worried about her safety—that threat's been neutralized—but because the press would eat her alive.
Now her father's about to speak, and she's wound so tight I can feel it radiating off her.
Victor clears his throat. The room quiets.
"I want to address the recent photographs," he says.
His voice is calm. Measured. The tone of a man who's thought about every word.
"My daughter, Ivy, met her stepbrothers for the first time a few months ago at my wedding.
There is no blood relation. No shared childhood.
No family history between them. They met as adults. "
Ivy exhales—small, shaky.
Victor continues. "Ivy did nothing wrong. She fell in love. That is not a scandal. That is not a crime. And I will stand by my daughter because she deserves better than to be vilified for choosing happiness."
Her hand finds mine. Squeezes.
"I will continue my campaign for the presidency," Victor says.
"I believe in the work we've started. I believe in the programs we've proposed.
But if the people of this country decide that I am not worthy of their vote because of a relationship between consenting adults, I will respect that choice.
I will not apologize for standing by my family. "
The camera flashes pop. Reporters shout questions. Victor doesn't answer. Just nods once and steps away from the podium.
The broadcast cuts to commentary. I reach for the remote and turn it off.
Ivy's crying. Not sobbing—just tears tracking down her face while she stares at the blank screen.
"He stood up for you," I say.
"I know." Her voice cracks.
Last weekend, the six of us had lunch. Victor, our mom, the four of us around a table trying to pretend it wasn't the most uncomfortable meal any of us had ever sat through. Victor was stiff. The conversation was careful. Every silence lasted a beat too long.
But he showed up.
That's more than I expected. More than Ivy expected too, I think.
She leans into me. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her hair.
Roman stands. "We have somewhere to be."
Ivy looks up, wiping her eyes. "What?"
"You'll see."
"I hate surprises."
I grin. "No you don't."
She protests the whole way to the car. Where are we going. Why won't you tell me. This is ridiculous. I'm not in the mood for surprises.
Roman drives. West sits beside him, silent, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that I recognize. Anticipation. Barely visible, but it's there.
We've been looking at houses for two weeks. Not apartments. Not temporary places. A home. For the four of us.
Ivy doesn't know yet.
The first house is too modern. All glass and sharp angles. Ivy walks through it politely, but her face doesn't change.
The second is too big. Too much space, too much upkeep. She doesn't say it, but I see her shoulders tense when the realtor mentions the second living room.
The third is nice. Good bones. Good location. But when Ivy looks at me, her expression is apologetic.
"It's fine," I say. "We've got one more."
The last house sits at the end of a quiet street. Trees in the front yard. A wraparound porch. Brick and wood, solid and warm, the kind of place that looks like it's been standing for decades and will stand for decades more.
Ivy steps out of the car and stops.
I watch her face.
There it is.
She walks up the steps slowly, her hand trailing along the porch railing. The front door opens—Roman already has the key—and she steps inside.
Hardwood floors. High ceilings. Light pouring through the windows in the front room, gold and soft, the kind of light that makes everything look like a photograph.
The kitchen is open, spacious, with room for all of us to move around each other without tripping. There's a fireplace in the living room, stone and real, not decorative.
Ivy walks through every room. Her fingers brush the walls, the doorframes, the windowsills. She lingers in the room at the back—windows that face the garden, morning light streaming in, space for a desk or a reading chair or whatever she wants.
West is standing in the kitchen when she comes back. His hand rests on the counter, his eyes tracking the way the light hits the floor.
"There's a garden," Ivy says.
"We know," Roman says.
She looks at me. Then at Roman. Then at West.
"This one."
I smile. "You sure?"
"Yes."
We're standing in the living room—empty, echo-y, ours. Ivy's in the center, turning slowly, taking it in.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you," Roman says.
"I love you, sweetheart," I say.
West steps closer, his hand finding hers.
"I love you."