Extended Epilogue
MAISIE
Five years later…
Small hands pat my face, insistent and sticky. I crack one eye open to find Oliver's round face inches from mine, his brown eyes—Marcus's eyes—bright with excitement.
"Mama! Mama, wake up!"
Behind him, Emma stands at the foot of the bed in her princess nightgown, her dark hair tangled from sleep. "Ollie, Mama's sleeping?—"
"I'm awake." I sit up, pulling my three-year-old son into my arms. "Good morning, baby."
Oliver throws his arms around my neck. "Daddy made pancakes!"
Marcus appears in the doorway, our one-year-old daughter Lily perched on his hip. He's shirtless, wearing only pajama pants, and the silver streaks in his black hair catch the morning light. Fifty-two looks good on him—still devastatingly handsome, still the man who makes my heart race.
"Sorry." He crosses to the bed, Lily babbling and reaching for me. "I tried to keep them downstairs, but Ollie escaped."
I take Lily from him, kissing her chubby cheek. "It's fine. We should get up anyway."
Emma climbs onto the bed, always the responsible eldest. "I tried to stop him, Mama."
"I know you did, sweetheart." I smooth her hair back. "Let's go have breakfast."
The kitchen is organized chaos. Marcus has made a spread—pancakes, scrambled eggs, fruit arranged on plates. I settle Lily into her high chair while Marcus gets Oliver into his booster seat. Emma climbs into her regular chair, already acting like the grown-up five-year-old she thinks she is.
"Juice, please," Emma says politely.
Marcus pours while I cut her pancakes into small pieces. Oliver already has syrup on his face, his fork abandoned in favor of using his hands. Lily smashes banana pieces between her fingers, smearing them across the high chair tray.
"Ollie, use your fork," I remind him gently.
He picks it up, stabbing at a pancake piece with serious concentration.
Marcus catches my eye across the table, and we share a smile. This is our life now—the beautiful chaos of three kids under six, the constant noise and mess and overwhelming love. Five years ago, I couldn't have imagined this. Now I can't imagine anything else.
After breakfast, Marcus takes Oliver and Lily to the playroom while I help Emma get dressed. She insists on picking her own outfit, a task that takes fifteen minutes and involves three wardrobe changes before she settles on a purple dress with sparkly shoes.
"Perfect," I tell her, brushing her hair. "You look beautiful."
"Can I wear your bracelet?" She points to the delicate silver chain on my dresser.
"Not today, baby. But when you're older."
The villa has changed so much over the years.
The nursery became the girls' shared bedroom, decorated in soft pinks and whites with Emma's big girl bed and Lily's crib.
Oliver has his own room down the hall, filled with trucks and dinosaurs.
We converted a spare room downstairs into a playroom, the space now overflowing with toys and books and the accumulated debris of childhood.
But it's still ours. Still the home where our story started, where Marcus claimed me in that bed upstairs, where we built our family.
Around ten, both older kids are settled in front of a movie. Lily's down for her morning nap. I slip into my office—another converted bedroom—and open my laptop. The manuscript sits waiting, cursor blinking in the middle of a difficult paragraph.
I've been stuck on this scene for two days.
Marcus appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "The kids are occupied. How's the writing going?"
I look up, smiling. "Good. This chapter's fighting me, but I'll get there."
He crosses behind my chair, reading over my shoulder. "Your third book already."
"Fourth, if you count the collection of short stories." I lean back against him, savoring his warmth. "But who's counting?"
"I am." He kisses the top of my head. "I'm proud of you."
The pride in his voice makes my chest tight.
My first novel published three years ago—a contemporary romance that did moderately well.
The second did even better, hitting some bestseller lists and earning enough that I actually contribute to household expenses now.
Marcus insists it's unnecessary, but having my own income matters to me.
I'm a working author. My childhood dream realized at twenty-five.
"I never thought this would actually happen," I admit. "That I'd be published, that people would actually read my books."
Marcus's hands rest on my shoulders. "I always knew you would be. You're brilliant."
"You're biased."
"Doesn't make it less true."
After lunch, we pack the kids into the SUV—another change from five years ago, when Marcus drove that sleek sedan. Three car seats require more space.
The park is crowded with other families enjoying the Saturday afternoon. Marcus pushes Lily in the baby swing while I shadow Oliver on the playground equipment. Emma makes friends immediately with a group of girls near the slide, her social butterfly nature on full display.
I settle on a bench, watching my family. Other mothers at the park notice Marcus—the striking older man with tattooed arms visible under his t-shirt, the silver in his beard catching the sunlight. Some probably make assumptions about our age gap, about the twenty-seven years between us.
I stopped caring what strangers think years ago.
Marcus catches me watching him and winks across the playground. Heat flares in my chest. Five years of marriage, three kids, and the connection between us still feels electric.
"Mama!" Oliver calls from the top of the slide. "Watch!"
"I'm watching, baby. Go ahead!"
He slides down, giggling the whole way.
On the drive home, Emma pipes up from the backseat. "Mama, why don't I have a grandma like my friends?"
My chest tightens. Marcus's hands flex on the steering wheel.
"You have a grandma," I say carefully. "She just lives far away."
"Will I ever meet her?"
Marcus glances at me, his jaw tight.
"Maybe someday," I tell Emma. "But not right now."
Dorothy was released from prison two years ago after serving three years. The restraining order was renewed despite her release. She sent one letter through her lawyer, asking to see her grandchildren. I responded through my own lawyer with a cordial but firm no.
We've maintained complete distance since. Dorothy remarried last year to a man she met through a prison pen pal program. She seems to have found her own life finally, and I feel nothing about her anymore—no anger, no longing. Just indifference.
Marcus reaches over, squeezing my thigh. "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah." I cover his hand with mine. "I'm good."
And I am. Dorothy is just a distant memory now, unable to touch the happiness we've built.
Dinner is more family chaos—Oliver knocking over his milk, Lily throwing peas on the floor, Emma telling elaborate stories about her kindergarten class. Afterward, Marcus handles bath time for all three while I clean up the kitchen.
I can hear splashing and giggles from upstairs, Marcus's deep voice reading stories. By eight, all three kids are in bed—Emma in her big girl bed, Oliver in his toddler bed, Lily in her crib.
The house finally falls quiet.
Marcus and I collapse on the couch together, my body molding against his side. His arm comes around me automatically, pulling me closer.
"We survived another day," I murmur.
"Three kids under six. We're warriors."
I laugh softly. We sit in comfortable silence, the TV playing something neither of us pays attention to. His hand strokes my arm in lazy patterns.
"You happy?" Marcus asks.
I look up at him. The question is sincere, checking in the way he does sometimes. Making sure I'm not regretting the choices we made, the life we built together.
"So happy." I kiss his jaw. "This life, our kids, you—it's everything I never knew I wanted."
His arm tightens around me. "Good. Because you're stuck with me forever."
"I can live with that."
Around ten, we drag ourselves to bed. In our room—the same room where everything started five years ago—we go through nightly routines. I pull on one of Marcus's old t-shirts. He strips down to boxer briefs.
In bed, he pulls me against his chest, his hand settling possessively on my hip. Still the same need to touch me, hold me, claim me.
"The kids will probably wake us up at six," I warn.
"Probably. You should sleep."
I yawn. "I know. But I wanted to tell you something first."
I turn in his arms to face him. "You know our arrangement? The one we've had since the beginning?"
His gray eyes darken with interest. "Yes."
"Just because we have kids now doesn't mean that's changed." I trace his jaw with my fingers. "I still want you to wake me up the way you do."
The dynamic that's been part of us from the start. Still present, still desired, still one of the ways we connect.
"You're sure?" His hand tightens on my hip. "You're exhausted."
"I'm always exhausted. Three kids will do that." I kiss him softly. "But I still want you. Still trust you with everything."
"I love you."
"I love you too. My creepy stalker husband who watches me sleep."
Said with complete affection.
"Your creepy stalker husband who knocked you up three times," he counters.
I laugh. "True. Though we should probably stop at three."
"Probably."
But the heat in his eyes suggests he likes me pregnant, likes seeing his children growing inside me.
I settle back against his chest, my eyes already drifting closed. Exhaustion catches up fast these days. Marcus holds me, his breathing steady and deep.
My last conscious thoughts drift lazily: I'm twenty-five now. A published author. A mother of three. A wife.
My life is nothing like I imagined at twenty.
It's better.
The forbidden relationship that started in secrecy became the foundation of everything good in my life. Marcus gave me safety, love, support, family. I gave him trust, devotion, forever.
My mother is just a distant shadow now, unable to touch this happiness.
Tomorrow I'll wake to my husband, my children, my full and chaotic life.
But tonight, I sleep in the arms of the man who claimed me five years ago.
My stepfather turned lover turned husband.
My everything.
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