Epilogue
One year later
Ella
“Don’t.”
“There are too many, Ella. I’m not keeping another one.
” His words arrive with a long-suffering sigh that suggests my husband has reached the limit of his patience.
However, experience has taught me that Tristan’s tolerance stretches considerably farther than he likes to admit.
I used to collect ribbons, but ever since moving in together a year ago, I have come to enjoy diversifying my hobby, hence the few, very few, adorable colorful cushions I have found to decorate our bed.
Even now, fancy things and luxury items do not appeal to me.
I still love small things. Teacups. Notebooks. Dried flowers. And, well…cushions.
We’re standing at the foot of our bed while the last traces of twilight slip beyond the windows, leaving the room bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamps. Between us towers what Tristan insists on calling a mountain of pillows. I’ll admit, the house has changed over the past year.
Books have multiplied until they occupy nearly every shelf.
Historical ones are now standing next to contemporary romances and classic English literature.
Framed photographs of us now cover the once-empty space above the fireplace, replacing the blank wall Tristan stared at on the night everything changed.
My favorite is the black-and-white one from our wedding day.
A simple, small gathering. Dad made it in his wheelchair with his nurse beside him, and he still walked me to Tristan while Maddie scattered rose petals in front of us.
I cried so many tears of joy that day. And I never get tired of looking at our wedding rings, especially when Tristan is in a suit, on a call, pacing the kitchen before work, looking so cold and broody and masculine, while there, on his finger, sits a piece of me for him to see every day.
His house has slowly become ours. Unfortunately for him, our definitions of negative space aren't similar, so finding balance between his minimalist ways and my desire to add color to our life, inside and out, remains a constant negotiation. But I guess that’s what marriage is all about.
Compromise. And at the end of the day, we’re always willing to make it work.
“You’re exaggerating,” I sign with complete innocence. His gaze moves from me to the bed, then slowly back to me.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I say silently.
“Twelve, sweetheart. There are twelve pillows on this bed. Six weeks ago, there were only six, which was already enough.”
“You counted them?” I frown dramatically.
“Of course,” he replies, folding his arms with the smug satisfaction of a man who thinks he is winning the argument. “I had to. They keep appearing.”
“I was just thrifting, and…”
“Thrifting?” He pauses, closing his hands into fists, then continues, “For the love of God, Ella, what did I tell you about using the Amex?”
“I’m trying,” I sign quickly, “but it feels like indulging, and it doesn’t feel right…”
“Trust me, Ella, buying brand-new pillows is far from indulging. Some of my associates’ wives spend thousands on those things.”
“Thousands?” I blink. “No. Nope. That’s crazy.
I would rather give thousands to charity.
It’s nonsense.” He looks at me with a soft smile and a hint of please never change, so I suppose it is not so bad.
Living with Tristan has taught me many things.
One of them is that the stern expression he wears whenever we argue about utterly insignificant things is entirely for show.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.” His pupils dilate with a mix of frustration and lust, as if he was battling himself to focus on our argument rather than…
other much more distracting thoughts. A shiver slips down to my knees, and I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, flushed.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before signing, “You remember our agreement, one item in, one item out.”
I look away with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
“Sweetheart,” he warns softly, “you know exactly how this ends.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“One pillow leaves the house…” He takes a step closer. “…or…”
I raise an eyebrow. “Or?” A slow smile spreads across his face, dangerously heated.
“Or we settle this another way.” I pretend to consider his proposal very seriously.
“What way?” I sign with false innocence.
He swallows, all humor draining out of him. “Chess,” he commands in a low voice. “Tomorrow.”
Loosening his tie with one practiced pull, he drapes it over the armchair beside the window, then slips off his jacket with the same control he brings to every negotiation.
“Is that wise, though?” I provoke him, blushing because the firm authority in him still manages to impress me. “May I remind you that I’ve beaten you three times this month?”
“You beat me because I taught you.”
“I beat you because I’m better.” I pick up the nearest cushion and toss it toward him. He catches it without looking.
“Mrs. Ashford.” His eyes sparkle with amusement.
“I distinctly remember marrying a very shy girl. I think you got me fooled, sweetheart.” He steps into my space, and I step back, laughing silently as the backs of my knees touch the mattress.
A second later, he overpowers me with ridiculous ease and lowers me onto the bed, caging me beneath him while the mountain of cushions collapses around us.
Me in my cotton shorts and tank, him in nothing but low-waisted dark sweatpants.
What were we talking about? Cushions? Right. Cushions.
I reach for his hands, tracing the familiar veins running across the backs of them. Those hands have taught me chess. Cooked many burned meals. Built bookshelves. Held mine through nightmares. Signed I love you every day, even when I didn’t believe I deserved it.
“God,” he murmurs, his voice roughening as he looks down at me. “Where were you all this time?” I smile, memorizing the shape of his hand, the scent of his skin.
“Waiting for you.” Something tender shifts across his face.
He brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear before kissing my forehead with the same gentleness he has shown me from the beginning, long before either of us dared imagine we would one day lie here as husband and wife.
Our pillows are forgotten, scattered across the floor and crushed beneath our legs as he kisses me again, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer until the last of the evening disappears beyond the windows.
Later, I lie safely against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
His fingers drift absentmindedly through my hair before he presses one lingering kiss to the crown of my head.
“Falling in love with you,” he whispers, “was the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.” I lift my hand between us.
I love you. Always.
“I love you too,” he murmurs. “Always.” As sleep finally finds me, I think about the butterfly resting on my shoulder, its blue wings forever covering the mark someone else forced upon me. Some scars never disappear. They simply become part of a different story.
Our story.
Imperfect, yet breathtakingly beautiful.
Tristan
One whole year of waking up beside the love of my life has passed, and I know I will never get tired of watching her wedding ring shine on her finger.
I have never been one to be sentimental, but damn, I could lose my memory and still remember the way she walked to me in her white dress, looking at me like I was her oxygen.
She was already crying by the time we said I do, and even if it wasn't allowed yet, I caught her lips and pressed a reassuring kiss, so she would know it was okay.
That everything would be okay from now on.
Perspective, I remember thinking from my thirty-second floor a year ago, before Ella burst into my life.
I didn't have perspective, at least not beyond the height of the skyscrapers outside my window.
Though I understand it now. My work, takeovers, and mergers used to be the chess set of my life, stretching in every direction until I mistook them for the whole world.
Back then, I didn't realize I had been playing against myself all along, until she came and showed me happiness could only be experienced when you had someone to share it with.
Ella gave me purpose, direction, and acceptance, even coming to some of my fights, which strikes her with a mix of deep worry and wild desire, and I will not complain, since those are the best possible outcomes of any fight.
Even bloody, spent, and bruised, she never fails to show me how much she cares when we get back home.
Not everything has been easy, though, and some challenges will continue to lead the way, especially regarding her father’s condition.
Years of medical poisoning damaged his health irreversibly, and despite my attempts to find the best surgeons and doctors, his condition is now permanent.
He does not complain and says that as long as he can still go outside with her in his wheelchair–which he did at our wedding–he is at peace with it.
She visits him every morning before class.
I tried to convince her to move him into our home, but she refused.
She said he was happy there, with a view overlooking hydrangeas and familiar medical staff.
Although I never miss her melancholic smile when she tells me about him.
Despite this bittersweet part of her life, Ella is happy now.
She went back to university and studies hard, my office now filled with books and scribbled poems. Sometimes I find her asleep on the desk, then carry her back to our bed.