Epilogue
HOLLY
Six months later…
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, watching the afternoon sun paint the city in shades of amber and gold. My reflection stares back at me—Holly Vale, not Holly Pierce anymore. The name still feels new on my tongue, thrilling and surreal even after four months of marriage.
Mrs. Harrison Vale.
My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach, still flat beneath the soft fabric of my sweater. Three positive pregnancy tests sit on the bathroom counter, each one confirming what my body has been trying to tell me for two weeks.
I'm pregnant.
The thought sends a rush of emotions through me—joy, fear, wonder, panic. I'm twenty-one years old, married to my stepbrother who's forty-nine, and carrying his baby. Our baby. The scandal that followed our relationship and marriage has barely died down, and now this will reignite everything.
But beneath the fear, there's overwhelming happiness.
Six months ago, Harrison claimed me publicly at that country club event, kissing me in front of everyone we knew. Six months ago, my mother gave me an ultimatum and Arthur disowned Harrison. Six months ago, I chose the man I love over everything else.
Four months ago, we got married.
The wedding wasn't what little girls dream about.
No white dress or church or reception with hundreds of guests.
We stood in a courthouse with two hired witnesses, exchanging vows in a small, sterile room.
I'd sent invitations to my mother and Arthur—beautiful cream cardstock with elegant calligraphy—but they never responded.
The envelopes probably ended up in the trash, unopened.
That hurt more than I wanted to admit.
But Harrison made it beautiful anyway. He'd arranged for flowers—cascading white roses and peonies that filled the courthouse room with fragrance.
He hired a photographer who captured every moment: the way his hands shook slightly when he slipped the ring on my finger, the tears in my eyes when he kissed me as my husband, the joy on both our faces despite the absence of family.
Afterward, he took me to the most expensive restaurant in the city, where we celebrated with champagne and decadent food. Then he brought me home—to this penthouse that's now ours—and made love to me as his wife for the first time.
"Mrs. Vale," he'd murmured against my skin, possessive and reverent. "My wife."
The memory still makes my breath catch.
Life since then has settled into a routine that feels both normal and surreal.
I returned to Ashford Sterling University for my junior year, determined not to let the scandal derail my education.
The gossip was brutal at first—whispers in hallways, pointed looks in lecture halls, online posts speculating about our relationship.
Gold digger. Homewrecker. Stepbrother's whore.
I learned to ignore it. Harrison taught me how—not by dismissing my feelings, but by reminding me that their opinions don't define us. What we have is real, regardless of what anyone thinks.
He's been different since we married. Still protective, still possessive, but more respectful of my independence. He doesn't show up unannounced on campus anymore or demand to know my every move. He trusts me, and I trust him.
Our marriage is strong. Built on a foundation of choosing each other when it would have been easier to walk away.
And now we're having a baby.
I move away from the window and walk back to the bathroom, picking up the pregnancy tests with trembling hands. Three pink lines, three digital displays reading "Pregnant," three confirmations that my life is about to change completely.
I've been feeling off for two weeks—nausea in the mornings, exhaustion that hits me out of nowhere, emotions that swing wildly between euphoric and weepy. I suspected what was happening but didn't want to confirm it until I was sure.
Now I'm sure.
Six weeks pregnant, according to the calculations I've been doing obsessively since the positive tests appeared. Due in early spring. A baby born from the most forbidden love I could imagine.
"A baby," I whisper to my reflection. "We're having a baby."
The reality settles deeper, and the joy becomes overwhelming. Yes, I'm young. Yes, our families might never fully accept us. Yes, the judgment will intensify.
But we're creating our own family now. Harrison and me and this tiny life growing inside me.
I want to tell him immediately, but he's still at work and won't be home for another hour. I glance at the clock—four-thirty. Enough time to prepare something special.
The next hour passes in a blur of activity.
I move through the kitchen, preparing Harrison's favorite meal—filet mignon with roasted vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes.
My cooking has improved dramatically over the past six months, guided by online tutorials and patient practice.
Harrison claims to love everything I make, but I know he's just being supportive. This meal, though, I've mastered.
I set the dining table with candles and our good china, the crystal glasses catching the evening light. Then I retrieve a small gift box from our bedroom closet, placing the three pregnancy tests inside along with a handwritten note: "You're going to be a daddy."
My hands shake as I arrange everything perfectly.
Will he be happy? We've never discussed children. The topic seemed too far in the future, something to worry about after we'd dealt with the immediate fallout of our relationship. Four months of marriage doesn't feel like long enough to bring a baby into the equation.
But I know Harrison. He's protective, loving, capable. He'll be an incredible father, even if the age gap means he'll be nearly seventy when our child graduates high school.
That thought sends a pang through my chest. He gave up so much for me—his relationship with his father, his standing in certain social circles, the easy path. And I chose him over my mother, over the family I'd known my whole life.
Was it worth it?
I look around the penthouse—our home, filled with signs of our life together. Harrison's suits hanging beside my dresses in the closet. My textbooks stacked on the coffee table next to his business journals. Framed photos from our wedding day arranged on the mantle.
Yes. It was worth it.
I shower quickly and dress in a simple navy dress that Harrison loves, the one that hugs my curves and falls to just above my knees. I apply light makeup and leave my hair down, the way he prefers it. Then I wait.
The knock at the door startles me.
Harrison has a key, so it's not him. My pulse quickens as I cross the living room. We rarely have unexpected visitors—most people in our lives have made their positions clear, and we've learned to exist in our own bubble.
I open the door cautiously, and my entire world tilts.
My mother stands in the hallway. Arthur beside her. Both looking uncomfortable and tentative, their expressions a mixture of anxiety and hope.
"Mom?" The word comes out strangled. "Arthur?"
My mother's eyes immediately fill with tears. She looks older than I remember—more lines around her eyes, gray threading through her hair. "Holly. Can we come in?"
I step aside numbly, my body moving on autopilot. They enter slowly, taking in the penthouse with careful glances. This is the first time they've been here, the first time they've seen the home Harrison and I have built together.
The silence stretches, heavy and awkward.
Arthur clears his throat. "You look well."
The pleasantry is so absurd given the circumstances that I almost laugh. Instead, I find my voice. "What are you doing here?"
My mother moves closer, her hands twisting together. "We came to talk. To... to apologize."
"Apologize?" The word sounds foreign.
Arthur's jaw tightens, but his voice is steady. "These past six months have been hell, Holly. Losing Harrison, losing you. The anger has faded, and all that's left is regret."
My mother takes another step. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. For the ultimatum, for cutting you off. I was shocked and hurt and I reacted badly."
The tears I've been holding back surge forward. "You disowned me. You told me to choose between my family and Harrison, and when I chose him, you walked away."
"I know." My mother's voice breaks. "And I've regretted it every day since."
"Why now?" I demand, my emotions swinging between anger and desperate hope. "Why after six months of silence?"
Arthur speaks up. "Because we're miserable without you both. Because life is too short to let pride destroy family. Because we were wrong."
My mother reaches for my hand tentatively. I don't pull away. "I don't understand your relationship with Harrison. The age difference, the stepsibling connection—it still doesn't make sense to me. But I love you, Holly. And if he makes you happy, then I need to accept it."
"He does make me happy." My voice cracks. "I love him, Mom."
"I'm trying to accept that." She squeezes my hand. "We both are."
Arthur looks around. "Where is Harrison?"
"At work. He'll be home soon."
"We'd like to talk to him too. If he'll listen."
"He will." I wipe at my tears. "He's been hurt by this too. He lost you, Arthur. His father disowned him."
Arthur's expression crumples slightly. "I know. That's something I need to make right."
The sound of the front door opening makes us all turn. Harrison steps inside, briefcase in hand, his suit jacket draped over one arm. He stops short when he sees Arthur and my mother, his expression going carefully neutral.
The man I love stands there—tall, imposing, distinguished. His tattooed arms are hidden beneath his dress shirt, his beard neatly trimmed, his gray eyes cautious. At forty-nine, he's never looked more handsome or more guarded.
"Dad. Frances."
Arthur steps forward. "Harrison. We came to apologize."
Harrison sets down his briefcase slowly, his movements controlled. "Go on."