Epilogue – Elara
Two Years Later
The glass walls of the serene gallery shimmer in the late afternoon sunlight, turning the polished wood floor into a warm expanse of gold.
My name is printed in elegant, simple letters on the program near the entrance: Elara Rusnak, Curator and Director.
It’s still a shock to see, but a quiet victory.
I laugh, a genuine, unburdened sound, as I adjust the stroller where Erik sleeps.
He’s barely a year old, and Roman and I love him with all our hearts.
Children run past, their footsteps echoing lightly on the stone, their parents admiring the exhibition of restored artwork I spent the last two years securing. This place, this purpose, is my peace.
I feel Roman before I see him. We’ve been together two years, and it’s always been like that. My body always registers him before my vision does.
He enters quietly through the heavy doors, a shadow of fierce control in this serene space. Roman is in a sharp suit, his long brown hair tied back severely, but his expression is softer than any man with his power should possess.
He walks straight to me, bypassing the art and the crowd. He bends down, his scent—woodsmoke and expensive cologne—a familiar anchor. He kisses my temple, his lips warm and firm.
“I’m not late, am I?”
“Are you?” I tease, physically restraining myself from looping my arms around his neck. He always has that effect on me.
He leans down to whisper, “What’s with that tone? Should we use one of the spare rooms?”
“Roman!” I slap his chest and push him away. “Not in front of your son.”
“Oh, right!” Laughing, he bends to kiss a sleeping Erik. “See, he’s asleep. I’ll be quick.”
“You’re never quick.”
“That’s a compliment.”
I roll my eyes. “Get over yourself.”
His eyes turn naughty, that familiar smirk curving his mouth. “You know how hot you always look when you put on a suit with these heels. It’s not my fault.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” he says, grinning as he takes my hand. The warmth of his palm still sends sparks up my arm, even after all this time.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my fingers. “I promise. You deserve this.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, my chest tightening a little.
Before I can say more, a voice booms through the gallery speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today….”
We both turn toward the small stage where Daniel, the event’s host, stands with a wide smile.
“We wouldn’t all be here tonight if it weren’t for the beautiful and talented Elara Rusnak,” he says, gesturing toward me. “She sourced these pieces and made this exhibition possible. Please, let’s give her a round of applause as she comes up here.”
The crowd claps—loud, warm, genuine. I freeze for a second, my heart thudding. Roman squeezes my hand, his voice low and steady near my ear.
“Go,” he whispers. “You’ve earned this.”
I turn to him, nerves fluttering in my stomach. “You’ll wait for me?”
“Always.” His smile is soft, eyes gleaming with quiet pride. “Go, moya koroleva.”
I take a breath and walk toward the stage, my heels clicking on the marble floor, the sound echoing through the gallery’s golden light.
I give my speech—short, heartfelt, trembling at the edges. I thank the donors, the restorers, the artists, but most of all, I thank the people who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. When I finish, the room erupts into applause.
But Roman’s clap is the loudest. He doesn’t even try to hide it. His eyes are fixed on me—soft, proud, and a little dangerous, like always.
I walk back to him, my pulse still racing. Before I can even say a word, he pulls me close and kisses me, deep and unhurried. The world fades. The cameras, the guests, the art—none of it exists. Just him.
He pulls back just slightly, his voice low and rough. “Being your husband is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
My throat tightens, eyes stinging with tears I try to blink away. It’s already an emotional night, and of course, Roman has to make it worse—in the best possible way.
“Thank you,” I whisper, smiling through the tears.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his thumb trailing along my jaw. “You’ll always be mine.”
“Always.”
He takes my hand, his other hand wrapping around the stroller handle, where Erik still sleeps, oblivious to the noise and lights.
Roman glances toward the exit, his voice softer now. “Let’s go home.”
And together, we do—our son between us, our shadows stretching long under the Manhattan lights.
*****
THE END