Epilogue
Someday later. Somewhere else. Something new beginning.
Emma didn’t even notice her tea had gone cold.
She was curled up in an oversized Chesterfield chair, legs tucked beneath her, fingers flying across the keyboard.
The words came easily tonight. Clear and purposeful in the way only a second draft could be. Fixing everything she’d gotten wrong the first time around. She barely registered the low hum of the city outside or the late hour slipping past.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She jumped, then reached for it, blinking at the name on the screen.
Leah.
Emma pulled the pen from her hair, letting it tumble over her shoulders, then swiped to answer.
“Hi, gorgeous!” Leah called. The noise of New York traffic bled in behind her voice, neon signs flashing past over her shoulder.
“Sorry I didn’t call at six like I said—I got stuck in a meeting with the Bellster.
Now that she’s finally started doing them, it’s like she’s trying to catch up on everything she’s missed. ”
“No worries,” Emma chuckled. “It’s so good to see you, Leah. How is Kay?”
Leah rolled her eyes dramatically, the camera bobbing with her steps. “Driving me nuts as usual. I’m starting to regret I ever signed her.”
“No, you’re not.” Emma’s smile was earnest. Not even the faintest flicker of jealousy, even though Leah had been handling Kay almost full-time these last few months.
Emma had been keeping quite busy herself.
“No, I’m not,” Leah admitted. “She’s a pain in my ass, but she’s brilliant. And speaking of brilliant, I just finished the draft you sent for the sequel. Em, are you kidding me? It’s perfect! It’s—screw it, I love it. You wrote the hell out of this book.”
Emma leaned back, warmth unfurling in her chest. Her bones felt made of light—like Catlyn the moment she first tapped into her power. “Thanks. It’s just the first draft, though. I’m already elbow-deep in the second.”
“Of course you are.” There was a softness in Leah’s voice that almost resembled pride. “By the way, did Netflix confirm Josh Taylor yet?”
“Yeah.” Emma had received the email a few days ago.
The role of Lucen had finally gone to a young New York actor with only a handful of roles behind him.
He was a little thinner, his features sharper than the Lucen she’d imagined.
But he almost, almost had the same magnetic gaze as the man she’d actually pictured.
Emma had been to one of his auditions. Josh was a goofy and sweet guy in person, but as soon as he stepped onto the stage, his whole demeanor changed, and he absolutely killed it with his performance.
The Bonds of Light fans would embrace him with open arms. Maybe a little too open, knowing her fandom.
“You okay about it?” Leah asked. “I know it’s not who you really hoped for.”
Somewhere behind Emma, a door opened and closed quietly.
“Totally fine,” she said. “Josh will be amazing. I just hope he’s ready for the oncoming storm of violent fan affection.”
“He’ll learn to love it.” Leah shrugged.
“Or he’ll freak out and spiral into weird indie movies, like Pattinson after Twilight.
Either way, he’ll be fine. So. FaceTime drinks later to celebrate that you finished the draft?
Toasting to the glorious return of emotional vulnerability and character torture? ”
Emma hesitated, then grinned crookedly. “Can’t. It’s already past bedtime here.”
Leah frowned. “What do you mean it’s . . . wait.” She squinted into the camera, her face filling the screen. “Why is it dark outside on your end? Aren’t you in Minneapolis?”
Before Emma could answer, a shadow moved behind her.
Darren leaned into the frame, kissing the top of her head. “Hi, Leah. Remind me to explain time zones to you the next time we meet.”
Leah let out a strangled gasp.
“And Emma is right,” he added smoothly. “It is way past her bedtime. Bye, Leah.”
“Wait—” Leah shouted. “London content, Emma, or I am firing you as a client—”
The call ended with a soft click. Emma drew up one knee, the worn leather of the chair giving a low creak as she looked back.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. “How was the gallery meeting?”
“It went perfectly.” Darren set down his portfolio by the couch. “They’ll host the exhibition starting next month. I’ll order ridiculous amounts of champagne for the opening. Get everyone drunk enough to love the photos.”
“You won’t have to,” Emma said, folding her arms over the back of the chair. “They’re amazing.”
Darren ran a hand through her hair. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “You’d better come back here for the opening. I’ll point you toward all the fancy art people so you can charm and dazzle them while I keep refilling their glasses. They won’t know what hit them.”
His cheeks were pink from the London autumn chill. A different kind of cold than Minneapolis, rawer somehow, like mist settling in your bones.
Emma hadn’t quite gotten used to it in the week she’d been here—their first real stretch of time together after months of FaceTime calls across time zones.
But she didn’t mind the cold so much. Darren’s cozy Hampstead townhouse felt designed for curling up indoors—and he was good at finding ways to keep her warm.
Takeaway coffee with just a touch of hazelnut syrup.
Promptly wrapping her in scarves for their walks around the Heath, even when she insisted she didn’t need one.
Takeout boxes on the floor by the fireplace, turning dinner into an indoor picnic.
Other ways too.
“Of course I’ll be here,” Emma said. “What’s the dress code? I might wear one of your T-shirts.”
Darren made a sound resembling a growl. She met the dark look he gave her without flinching, barely holding back her smile. Anticipation coiled low in her belly.
“So,” he said, voice dropping. With one smooth pull, he dragged her chair toward him. Emma gasped as it scraped sideways. He ignored it, bracing his hands on either armrest. Caging her in. Her pulse stumbled.
“You finished the first draft. How come you didn’t tell me?”
Emma reached out to close the laptop, slow like a dare. She shrugged lightly. “Because the real magic doesn’t happen until the second draft.”
He lifted her chin with gentle fingers, keeping her gaze pinned to his.
“No, Emma,” he murmured. “The real magic happens when you put the pen down . . . and let someone else write for a while.”
She arched a brow. “Is that so?”
“Oh yes.”
“Fine,” she said, smirking. “Then write me a story, Darren Cole.”
His eyes glinted, turning wicked. “Oh, I can do one better.”
Emma yelped when he scooped her up without warning, like some shameless Harlequin cover model.
“Put me down, you maniac,” she laughed, clutching at him. “I wasn’t done with the scene. This is a clear violation of basic workplace safety protocols.”
He carried her toward the bedroom with effortless ease. “You told me you were done playing it safe, Emma. You don’t get to complain about protocols.”
Even so, he was careful as he eased her down on the bed, brushing stray locks of hair from her face.
“And besides,” he added, lips curving. “I’m just following the number one rule of good writing.”
“Which rule is that?” she challenged, breathless. “Be as cliché as humanly possible?”
He bent in close, velvet heat in his voice. “Show, don’t tell, love.”
Emma groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s embarrassing, Darren. Not even you can sell that.”
“That may be true,” he said, breath brushing against her mouth. “But I have other talents.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“Mhm.” He kissed her, slow and deep. His fingers laced with hers, guiding her hands above her head. She gasped softly, and he drank it in.
It felt like surrender—but she’d never expected it to taste so sweet.
“Okay,” she whispered against his lips. “Then show me.”
He did.
Outside, London pulsed with life, traces of them scattered over the city. His face on the side of a bus. Her books stacked in a bookstore window. A candid photo of them splashed across a tabloid cover, left by someone on a subway seat.
Inside, none of it mattered. Only the rhythm of their breaths. The warmth of skin against skin. The way he held her after, snug against his body as the heat faded and they drifted off to sleep.
The world could wait. This story belonged to them alone.
And for once, Emma felt no need to control it.
She was too busy living it.