Epilogue
JOLIE
Three months later…
I stare at the stick until my eyes burn.
It's been three minutes. Maybe four. The box said three minutes but I counted to two hundred because I couldn't stop shaking long enough to trust my own eyes. Now I look at the little window and the plus sign is still there. Pink and solid and not going anywhere.
I'm pregnant.
I say it in my head again. I'm pregnant. It doesn't sound real. It sounds like something that happens to other women, the ones who have their lives together and don't flinch when someone raises their voice. Women who aren't me.
But the stick says it's me, and I know exactly when it happened. That night on the table in the dining room, when they put the rings on my fingers while they were still inside me. They filled me that night, both of them, over and over.
I wrap the test in a paper towel and shove it into the bottom of my purse, washing my hands twice before looking at myself in the mirror.
My face is flushed, and my breasts look bigger.
They have been for weeks, and I thought it was just the increased milk production from how often they feed from me.
But it's more. My stomach is still flat, but my jeans are tight, my nipples are darker, and I've been tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix.
I should have known. I think part of me did know.
The bathroom is in the back hallway of the restaurant, the same one I hid in the first day I came back to town when I planned to sell everything and run.
Now the restaurant is mine, ours. The walls are painted warm gray, the light fixtures are new, the mirror is clean, and I don't want to hide anymore.
I walk out into the hallway. The dinner service ended an hour ago, the staff is gone, and the kitchen is dark. I can hear Jarvis and Jett in the dining room, moving chairs and checking locks, doing their usual closing routine. They don't know I'm here. They think I'm resting.
I didn't go upstairs to rest. I went to the drugstore two blocks over and bought four tests because I didn't trust just one. I took the first in the store bathroom because I couldn't wait, the second in the car, and the third and fourth here.
All positive.
I walk to Jarvis's office. The door is open, and the desk is clean except for the laptop and a stack of invoices he'll deal with tomorrow.
I sit in his chair, which smells like him, and spin around once like a kid before stopping because my stomach flips and I remember I'm not supposed to spin when I'm pregnant.
I don't know how long I sit there. My hands won't stop shaking, and I keep the test in my purse but take it out three times to check if the plus sign is still there. It is. It's always there.
The past three months have been the best and scariest of my life.
The restaurant is thriving with a weekend waitlist, and the TikTok account I started has over a hundred thousand followers.
Diego, our head chef, was featured in a local magazine last month, and my grandparents come for dinner twice a month.
They sit at the corner booth, my grandfather ordering the same steak every time and my grandmother telling anyone who'll listen that her granddaughter owns the place.
I stopped binding completely and haven't worn cotton strips since the night they found me in that motel.
My breasts leak whenever they want to now, and Jarvis and Jett drain me twice a day, sometimes three times.
It's become part of our routine—morning in bed, afternoon in the office if the pressure gets too bad, and night before sleep.
They treat it like a privilege, like I'm doing it for them instead of because my body demands it.
But lately it's been different. The flow is heavier, and my breasts are tender in a new way. I thought it was just because they were suckling more often. I was wrong.
I touch my stomach through my sweater. It's still flat, but I know what's in there. I know because I feel it. Not the baby, not yet, but the change, the shift. My body isn't just mine anymore.
"Jolie?"
Jarvis's voice comes from the hallway, low and sharp with concern, and I hear his footsteps get closer, heavy and fast.
I stand up. My knees feel loose. I grab the edge of the desk to steady myself.
He fills the doorway. He's wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans, and his hair is slightly messy from running his hands through it. He does that when he's stressed. He looks at me and his eyes narrow.
"What are you doing here?" he asks. "I thought you were already resting."
"I didn't," I say. My voice sounds small.
"Are you sick? You look pale."
"I'm not sick."
Jett appears behind him. He's in a gray henley and jeans, and he's holding his phone. He was probably checking the new Instagram posts. He's obsessed with the numbers. We hit fifty thousand followers last week.
"Sunshine?" Jett pushes past Jarvis. "What's going on? Why are you hiding in the office?"
"I'm not hiding," I say. But I am. I'm standing behind the desk like it's a shield.
Jarvis steps inside, and Jett follows. They both look at me, and I feel naked even though I'm fully dressed in leggings and one of Jett's oversized sweaters. My purse is on the desk with the test inside, and I keep looking at it like it's going to catch fire.
"Talk to us," Jarvis says. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds worried. "You're shaking."
I look at my hands. He's right. They are shaking.
"I have to tell you something," I say. "And I need you to not say anything until I'm done. Okay? Just let me get it out."
Jarvis goes still, and Jett's face changes. They both look like they're bracing for bad news. I think about how stupid this is—they probably think I'm leaving again, or I'm sick, or something happened with the restaurant.
I reach into my purse, my fingers closing around the paper towel, and I pull it out. I unwrap the test slowly, my hands fumbling, and set it on the desk between us.
The plus sign faces them.
For a long moment, no one moves or breathes.
Jarvis stares at the test like he's reading a contract he doesn't understand, his eyes fixed on it. Then he looks up at me with a completely blank face, no smile or frown, just frozen.
My heart drops into my stomach.
"Jarvis?" I whisper. My voice cracks. "Say something. Please."
He doesn't say anything, just keeps staring at me with those dark eyes, and the silence stretches so long I start to feel sick.
I knew it. I knew this was too much. I knew forever didn't mean babies, and I should have waited until I was sure they wanted this.
We never really talked about it. They joked about breeding me and filling me, but that was in the moment, heat and want.
This is real. This is a baby.
"I'm sorry," I say. The tears come fast. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I mean, I knew it could happen, we didn't use anything, but I didn't plan it. Not exactly. I just thought you should know. And if you don't want it, if this is too much, I understand. I can..."
Jarvis moves.
It's not a step but a lunge. He crosses the space in one motion, knocking a pen holder to the floor, and then his hands are on my waist, lifting me into the air as he spins me around. The office blurs, the ceiling spins, and I grab his shoulders and scream because I wasn't expecting it.
He stops spinning and pulls me against his chest so hard I can barely breathe, his heart hammering against my ear and his whole body shaking.
"Jarvis?" I say into his shirt.
He makes a sound, not a word, but a choked, broken noise I've never heard from him before. He buries his face in my neck, his arms tightening until I'm crushed against him.
"Again," he says. His voice is muffled. Rough. "Say it again."
"I'm pregnant," I whisper.
He makes that sound again, and this time I realize what it is. He's crying.
Jarvis Donovan, the man who spent years in the military and built an empire from nothing, who doesn't flinch when suppliers threaten him or competitors try to ruin him, the man who locked a door and told me I was never leaving—he's crying against my neck.
"You're sure?" he asks.
"Four tests," I say. "All positive. And I'm late. And my breasts are... they're different. And I'm tired. And I just... I know."
He pulls back with red, wet eyes, looking at me like he's never seen me before—like I'm magic, like I'm everything.
"Put her down, you big idiot," Jett says. "You're going to squeeze the baby."
Jarvis sets me down, his hands still on my waist as he looks at my stomach. It's still flat under the sweater, but his eyes are wide and reverent.
Jett moves in, his face pale and his eyes too bright.
He reaches out and touches my cheek, then drops to his knees right there on the office floor.
He kneels in front of me, pulls up my sweater, and presses his face against my bare stomach, his cheek against my skin and his arms wrapped around my hips.
"Hey," he murmurs, his voice shaking. "Hey, little one. It's your daddy. Both your daddies. We're here, and we're going to take such good care of you and your mama. She's the best mama in the world, so brave. And you're so lucky. We're all so lucky."
I look down at Jett Donovan. The sharp-tongued businessman who reads rooms and destroys competitors before lunch is on his knees with tears on his face, talking to a cluster of cells the size of a pea.
I start crying too, the relief so intense my legs give out. Jarvis catches me, lifting me again and cradling me against his chest as he carries me around the desk and sits in his chair with me in his lap.
"You're happy?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. But I need to hear it.
"Happy?" Jarvis laughs. It's a wet, broken sound. "Jolie, you just handed me the only thing I ever wanted and was too scared to ask for."
He puts his hand on my stomach. It's huge and warm and spans almost my entire abdomen. His palm presses flat against me, possessive and protective.
"Our baby," he says. "Daddy's going to take such good care of both of you. Both of you are mine."