Epilogue
LEA
The ivory dress clings to my body, its plunging back exposing skin that Nico’s lips have memorized, while a cascade of tiny diamonds on the delicate sleeves catches the light with every breath I take.
“Stop fidgeting,” Sienna scolds good-naturedly, adjusting the last pins in the intricate arrangement of my hair. “You’re worse than a child.”
“I can’t help it,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the cool marble of the vanity. “None of this feels real.”
It was only two months ago that I stood in an art gallery and watched six years of relentless pursuit come to a dramatic end.
In a single night, I learned my mother was an operative who murdered my father.
I witnessed Nico’s calculated violence, and I was forced to confront my capacity for it.
I chose a side in a war I never meant to join, and today, I am marrying the most dangerous man in Chicago.
“Real enough?” Sienna asks, gently settling a delicate diamond comb into my dark waves before stepping back to admire her handiwork. “There. Perfect.”
My hand drifts to the comb, Nico’s gift from this morning. It arrived with a note in his precise handwriting: For the woman who sees all of me and stays, anyway.
“You know,” Sienna says, her tone carefully casual as she fusses with my veil, “it’s not too late to run. Maid of honor duties. I’m contractually obligated to offer you an escape route.”
I turn on the vanity stool to face her, taking her hands in mine. “Sienna, I’m not running. I know exactly what I’m doing and who I’m marrying.”
Her expression softens with a familiar, worried affection. “I know you do. That’s what scares me.”
A polite knock at the door interrupts us.
Blake stands in the doorway, impeccable in a tailored suit, his expression as controlled as ever.
In the months since he saved Nico’s life, he has stepped fully into his role as Nico’s right hand.
He’s never warm, but there’s a quiet competence about him that I’ve come to respect.
“It’s time, Ms. Song,” he says. “Everything is in place.”
I take a final steadying breath and nod to Blake. “I’m ready.”
Sienna squeezes my hand one last time before moving to take her position. As she passes Blake, she gives him a pointed look. “If anything happens to her?—”
“Nothing will happen,” Blake cuts her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Mr. Varela has seen to every contingency.”
I hide a smile at their exchange as Blake leads me through the house.
Through the windows, I catch glimpses of the grounds, transformed into a vision of understated elegance.
White chairs are arranged in perfect rows on the manicured lawn, a white carpet leading to an arch draped with the impossible beauty of gardenias and lilies.
Beyond, the lake shimmers in the afternoon sun, a canvas of liquid silver.
We pause at the French doors leading to the garden.
From here, I can see the guests already seated, their quiet conversations a soft murmur beneath the music of the string quartet.
Alessandro sits in the front row, his silver hair gleaming, his posture rigid but proud.
Harrison Wells, who surprised me by accepting my invitation, sits further back, looking uncomfortable but determined in his Sunday best.
And there, waiting at the end of the aisle, stands Nico.
My breath catches at the sight of him, handsome in a black tuxedo that accentuates his lean strength.
To the world, he is the epitome of a powerful man on his wedding day—confident and commanding.
But I see what they don’t: the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze performs a barely perceptible scan of the perimeter before finding mine, locking on with an intensity that makes the world fall away.
Even now, even here, he is the protector.
The music shifts, signaling the beginning of the processional.
After Sienna starts her walk, Blake steps aside, and I stand alone at the threshold between my past and my future.
With no father to walk me down the aisle and no mother to watch with tears in her eyes, it’s just me, making this choice, claiming this path.
As the wedding march begins, I step into the sunlight.
Nico’s eyes follow me, and I see the moment his careful composure slips, revealing a raw vulnerability that makes my heart constrict.
Love, desire, possession, and reverence are all there in that unguarded instant before his mask returns.
I walk steadily toward him, aware of the eyes watching us, of the symbolic meaning of each step.
This isn’t just a marriage; it’s an alliance, a consolidation of power, the sealing of an empire.
And yet, as I reach him and he takes my hand, it feels intensely, achingly personal. His fingers tighten around mine, and I feel the slight tremor in them—the only outward sign of the emotion he holds so tightly in check.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice pitched for my ears alone.
The ceremony passes in a warm, surreal haze.
We exchange traditional vows, and when I hear Nico promise to cherish and protect me, his voice is steady and sure.
I promise to honor and respect him, meaning every syllable, despite the complexities those simple words fail to capture.
When he slides the platinum band onto my finger, it nestles against his grandmother’s ring, feeling like a brand, a claiming, a promise.
Then his lips are on mine, sealing the vow, and the small gathering applauds as the officiant presents us for the first time: “Mr. and Mrs. Nicolás Varela.”
Mrs. Varela. A new identity to add to the collection. Journalist. Captive. Partner. Queen. Wife.
The reception unfolds in a massive tent near the lake, its transparent sides offering panoramic views of the water. Nico keeps me close as we move through the guests, his hand a constant, possessive anchor at the small of my back.
“Smile,” he murmurs as we approach Senator Wright.
“He’s been questioning our acquisition of the West Harbor property.
” I slide seamlessly into the role of charming hostess, and the conversation flows smoothly.
This is the dance we do now, a perfect blend of social grace and implied power.
As we move away, I lean closer to Nico. “His wife is wearing a new diamond bracelet, far beyond their reported income.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Someone’s been generous.”
“And buying influence,” I add. “Might be worth looking into his recent voting record on the maritime commerce bill.”
His hand tightens slightly on my waist in appreciation. “Already have Blake on it.” It’s a minor exchange, but it represents the fundamental shift in our relationship. I am no longer his target or his captive; I am his counsel.
Later, we pause to speak with Alessandro.
Even at our wedding, the work never stops, but now he accepts my presence as a given.
He reports that Moretti’s former associates have accepted our terms, and the supply line is secure.
He confirms my mother remains in deep federal debriefing and that Isabel was extradited to Colombia, where her cartel was reportedly “displeased” with her failure.
One by one, the loose ends of our violent courtship have been tied.
As the orchestra transitions into a new piece, Nico turns to me. “I believe this is our cue for the first dance, my love.”
He draws me into his arms, leading me in a slow, graceful dance we’ve practiced for weeks. His hand is warm and steady against my back, guiding me with the same assured confidence he brings to everything. “Happy, Mrs. Varela?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully, meeting his gaze. “Though I’m still getting used to the name.”
“It suits you,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Everything about you suits me.”
As the afternoon stretches into evening, I catch Nico’s eye and tilt my head slightly toward the lake. He nods almost imperceptibly, understanding without words. “Fifteen minutes,” he murmurs as I slip away. “Blake will be within sight.”
I make my way down to the private dock, my heels clicking softly on the wooden planks. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. I don’t hear Nico approach, but I feel him sit beside me, the solid warmth of his presence a familiar gravity.
“Running away from your own wedding, Mrs. Varela?” he asks, his tone light.
“Just needed a moment,” I reply, leaning against his shoulder. “It’s a lot.”
He nods, his gaze sweeping over the lake. “Second thoughts?” The question is soft, revealing the sliver of uncertainty that remains in him, even now.
“No,” I say firmly, turning to face him. “No second thoughts. Just... adjusting to the reality that this is our life.”
He takes my hand, his thumb tracing the ring he placed there. “You know what this means, what being my wife entails. There will be difficult moments, decisions that would horrify the woman you were.”
I think of Vincent, of Moretti, of the countless necessary evils that maintain the balance of our world. “I know,” I say simply.
“And you still choose this? Choose me?”
In answer, I lean forward and kiss him, pouring into it all the complex emotions I can’t articulate—the fear and the exhilaration, the compromise and the absolute certainty.
“I have something for you,” I tell him when we part, reaching into a hidden pocket of my dress to pull out a small velvet box.
Nico looks genuinely surprised. Inside is a platinum watch, elegantly simple, with a black face. “Turn it over,” I say.
His eyes widen slightly as he reads the inscription: To my King. Eyes open, heart yours. Forever, L.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice rougher than usual.
“I wanted to give you something that would remind you,” I explain, fastening it around his wrist. “Every time you check the time... remember that I chose this. Chose you. With my eyes wide open.”
He captures my face between his hands, his gaze intense. “I will build you an empire,” he promises, his voice low and fervent. “I will give you the world.”
“I don’t need the world,” I tell him honestly. “I just need you.”
He kisses me again, possessively and demanding. When we finally break apart, the sun has nearly set. From the reception, we can hear the muted sounds of our guests enjoying the celebration.
“We should get back,” I say reluctantly.
Nico stands, offering me his hand. “Let them notice,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “Let them see that the most powerful man in Chicago can’t be away from his wife for more than an hour.”
Wife. The word still sends a thrill through me. As we walk back toward the lights of the tent, his hand firm around mine, I think about the vows we exchanged here, on this dock, in private. The acknowledgment of darkness and the promise to face whatever comes together, as equals.
I glance up at my husband’s profile, sharp and beautiful against the dying light. He feels my gaze and looks down, his expression softening in a way reserved only for me.
“Ready, Mrs. Varela?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
I smile, stepping confidently toward our future. “Always.”