Epilogue
MARCUS
Six months later…
I pull into the garage at six o'clock on a Friday evening, the autumn air crisp through the open window before I shut off the engine.
Six months have passed since I proposed to Maisie by the fountain, and the trees around the villa now show brilliant reds and golds instead of spring green.
The seasons changed, and so did our lives—for the better, in every possible way.
I loosen my tie as I step through the garage door into the house, the familiar warmth and scent of home wrapping around me.
"Maisie? Baby, I'm home."
Her voice floats from the living room. "In here."
I find her curled on the couch with a book, and the sight makes me pause in the doorway.
She wears one of my shirts—a blue button-down that's become her favorite—and black leggings.
Her brunette hair has grown longer over the past months, pulled into a messy bun that frames her face.
But it's her stomach that draws my attention, as it always does now.
The noticeable swell of pregnancy at five months, the physical proof of our child growing inside her.
She looks up as I enter, and those green eyes brighten with welcome.
I cross to the couch, lean down to kiss her. Soft and lingering, tasting like the tea she's been drinking. My hand automatically goes to her pregnant belly, spanning the curve possessively.
"How are my girls?"
We found out last week at the ultrasound. A daughter. The technician showed us the screen, pointing out fingers and toes and the unmistakable confirmation of gender. Maisie cried, and I held her hand so tight I probably hurt her. But she didn't complain, just smiled through tears and squeezed back.
"We're good. She's been kicking all afternoon."
As if on cue, I feel movement under my palm. Small flutters that still seem surreal despite weeks of feeling them. My daughter, moving inside my wife. The possessive satisfaction of that knowledge never fades.
I sit beside Maisie, pulling her legs across my lap. My thumb rubs circles on her belly through the soft fabric of my shirt.
"How was your day?"
"Productive. Wrote about four thousand words on the novel."
Pride swells in my chest. "That's impressive. When can I read it?"
"When it's done. I don't show works in progress, you know that."
She's been working on a novel since the beginning of summer, determined to pursue her writing seriously.
I've offered to support her fully—she doesn't need to work, can focus entirely on her craft—but she insists on finishing her degree first. Just taking the spring semester off when the baby comes.
My hands find her feet, massaging them gently. She sighs contentedly, letting the book fall closed on her lap.
"You spoil me."
"That's my job. Especially now."
We settle into comfortable conversation, catching up on our separate days.
My work went well—closed a deal I'd been negotiating for weeks.
Maisie had a doctor's appointment that afternoon, everything looking good with the pregnancy.
She finished her fall semester classes at Westbridge yesterday with straight A's, her professors accommodating about her condition.
I listen to her talk, rubbing her swollen feet, and reflect on how much has changed in six months.
We got married three months ago, in August. A small ceremony right here at the villa, just us and an officiant and a handful of close friends.
No family—my parents passed years ago, and Maisie has no one but Dorothy, who was already awaiting trial.
Simple, intimate, perfect. Maisie wore a white dress that showed her early pregnancy—just barely noticeable then—and I wore a dark suit.
The ceremony lasted fifteen minutes, but those vows felt more binding than any legal contract I'd ever signed.
Finding out about the pregnancy two weeks after the wedding shocked us both.
But the surprise faded quickly into excitement, then fierce protectiveness on my part.
Watching Maisie's body change with my child growing inside her satisfies something primal in me.
My wife, pregnant with my daughter, safe and happy in our home.
Everything I never knew I wanted until I had it.
Maisie's expression clouds slightly, pulling me from my thoughts. "I got a letter today. From my mother's lawyer."
My hands still on her feet. "What did it say?"
"She took a plea deal. Five years in prison with possibility of parole in three."
The terroristic threat charge plus the assault and harassment and attempted breaking and entering all added up. Dorothy faced up to ten years if convicted on all counts. Five with parole in three is merciful, considering.
"How do you feel about that?"
Maisie considers for a moment, her hand resting on her belly. "Relieved, mostly. She can't hurt us for at least three years. And honestly? I've mostly stopped thinking about her."
I pull her closer, careful of her stomach. "Good. She doesn't deserve your energy."
"I know. The restraining order will be renewed anyway. Even when she gets out, she can't contact us."
The shadow of Dorothy Fletcher finally fading into the past where it belongs. Maisie rarely mentions her mother anymore, and when she does, it's with detachment rather than pain. Therapy helped, and time, and the security of knowing Dorothy can't reach her.
I press a kiss to Maisie's temple. "Enough about her. Are you hungry?"
"Starving, actually."
I help her off the couch, noting how she moves more carefully now with the extra weight. In the kitchen, I insist on cooking despite her protests. She sits at the island, watching me work, and I feel her eyes on me as I prepare chicken and vegetables.
"You're really taking this pregnancy husband thing seriously."
I glance at her over my shoulder. "You're carrying my child. I'm going to take care of you."
Every aspect of Maisie's pregnancy stays under my watch.
I attend every doctor's appointment, track her nutrition, ensure she gets enough rest, adjust anything that affects her comfort.
My hand hovers near the small of her back when she moves through the house.
I check what she eats, how much water she drinks, whether she's sleeping enough.
Maisie doesn't complain. Her lips curve when I reach for her before she can lift something heavy. She rolls her eyes but lets me pile another pillow behind her back when she sits down.
We eat at the island. Between bites of chicken, Maisie scrolls through saved nursery photos on her phone, showing me paint swatches and crib options. Three potential names sit in a note on her phone that she rereads every few days, her brow furrowing as she weighs each one.
"I got accepted," she says suddenly, setting down her fork. "To that online writing workshop. It starts in January."
I reach across the counter and squeeze her hand. "That's exactly what you should be doing. Sign up for it."
Her smile brightens, and she squeezes back.
After dinner, I guide her to the couch. Some background show plays on the TV—neither of us pays attention. Maisie tucks herself against my side, and my hand finds her belly, palm flat against the swell. Under my touch, the baby shifts. A small kick presses against my hand, then another.
"You tired?"
She yawns. "Yeah. She's been draining my energy lately."
"Then let's get you to bed."
I help her up, supporting her even though she's perfectly capable of walking. The protectiveness extends to every small thing—opening doors, helping her with stairs, steadying her when she stands. She tolerates it with patient amusement most days.
In the bedroom, I help her change into comfortable sleepwear. One of my t-shirts that stretches over her belly, soft sleeping shorts. She looks beautiful like this—pregnant and comfortable and mine.
We settle into bed together, and I pull Maisie against my chest, careful of her belly. My hand rests on her pregnant stomach possessively, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric.
"Marcus?"
"Hmm?"
"You know I'm exhausted, right?"
"I know."
She shifts slightly, looking up at me with a small smile. "But you know... our arrangement still stands."
Heat flares in my chest. Her permission for our "late-night activities" hasn't changed despite her pregnancy. If anything, Maisie seems to crave it more now—the surrender, the trust, the knowledge that I'll take care of her needs even when she's unconscious.
My hand tightens on her belly. "You're sure? You're pregnant. I don't want to hurt you."
She turns her head to look at me fully, those green eyes serious. "The doctor said sex is fine. And you know I love waking up to you."
We've been careful the past few months, adjusting positions and intensity as her body changed. But the core dynamic remains—her permission, my need, the trust that binds us.
Maisie yawns again, her eyes already drifting closed. "I'm falling asleep already. But I wanted you to know... I still want you to."
The explicit permission given even as exhaustion pulls her under. I kiss her temple, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.
"Sleep, baby. I'll take care of you."
She makes a soft contented sound, already drifting off. Her breathing evens out within minutes, deep and steady. Pregnancy exhaustion claims her fast these days.
I hold her, feeling her relax completely against me. My pregnant wife, trusting me with everything. My hand strokes her belly gently, and I feel our daughter move beneath my palm. Small flutters of life that still amaze me.
Soon I'll act on her permission. Wake her body with pleasure while she sleeps. But for now, I just hold her, savoring the moment. The warmth of her against me, the weight of her pregnant belly under my hand, the diamond wedding ring on her finger catching the dim light from the lamp.
This is everything I never knew I needed. A wife who loves me without reservation. A daughter on the way. A future bright and secure, the darkness of the past finally behind us.
I press another kiss to Maisie's shoulder, feeling her deep sleep breathing. My wife. My family. My everything.
And as her soft snores fill the quiet bedroom, I let my hand drift lower, ready to worship her sleeping body the way she asked me to.