Epilogue – Ashley
Two Years Later
The backstage of the Grand Palais is a chaotic symphony of running assistants, hissing garment steamers, and the sharp, overlapping scent of expensive hairspray and fresh paint.
It is a world I know by heart. The frantic energy, the blinding strobe lights leaking through the heavy velvet curtains, the high-stakes pressure of a debut collection—it’s the exact canvas where Samuel and I first collided.
But tonight, everything feels different.
I stand near the main dressing racks, adjusting the drape of an asymmetrical emerald gown on a mannequin. When I lean forward, the heavy silk of my own black maternity dress clings to the soft, unmistakable curve of my swollen belly. I’m six months pregnant, glowing, and completely in control.
“I don’t care what the seating chart says, Ashley,” a sharp, whining voice cuts through the room’s hum.
It’s Julianna, a notoriously difficult heiress and major brand investor, who crosses her arms and glares at her digital invitation.
“If I’m not seated next to the runway center point, my media team is leaving before the finale. ”
I turn slowly, offering her a calm, polished smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t stress.
“Julianna, you’re seated next to the editorial director of French Vogue,” I say, my voice smooth, level, and entirely unyielding.
“If you would prefer to swap seats with a junior influencer in the third row just to be closer to the center, I can certainly arrange that. But I imagine your media team would prefer the cover feature instead.”
Julianna blinks, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to find a counter-argument. Realizing she’s been thoroughly outmaneuvered, she huffs, turns on her heel, and sweeps away.
“Still as stubborn as ever, I see.”
The deep, rumbling baritone vibrates right down my spine, sending a familiar, electric thrill through my veins.
I turn to find Samuel leaning against a clothing rack, a dark, devastatingly handsome shadow in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
His hands are casually tucked into his pockets, his lips curved into a lazy, knowing smirk.
He looks so breathtakingly handsome it should be illegal, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes the chaotic room around us completely fade.
“I’m not stubborn, Samuel. I’m efficient,” I say, stepping toward him, my eyes scanning the broad line of his shoulders. “And what are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be in the VIP lounge.”
He steps out of the shadows, bridging the distance between us in a single, confident stride. The sheer physical presence of him still takes my breath away. He looks down at me, his gaze dropping to the curve of my stomach before rising back to my face, heavy with a heat that makes my skin tingle.
“I got bored of the champagne,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a register meant only for me. He reaches out, his large, warm hand sliding naturally over the side of my waist, his thumb caressing my hip. “And I wanted to see my wife in her element. You look incredible, Ashley.”
“I’m working, Mr. Rusnak,” I tease, leaning into his touch even as I offer a mock-stern look. “If you don’t get out of my backstage area right now, you’re going to distract me and ruin my show.”
“Let them be distracted,” Samuel chuckles, his grip tightening just enough to pull my hips flush against his. He bends his head, his breath warm against my ear. “Let them see exactly who you belong to.”
“Samuel,” I gasp quietly, my hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. The familiar, thick sexual tension between us flutters to life, hot and demanding. “Go. Before I make a scene.”
“Too late,” he whispers.
He cups my jaw, his thumb tilting my face up, and claims my mouth. The kiss is deep, possessive, and lingering, tasting of the familiar warmth that has sustained us through every storm. It is a promise, a claim, and a reminder of everything we are.
When he finally pulls back, I’m slightly breathless, my cheeks flushed, a soft laugh escaping my lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Daddy! Mommy!”
A joyful shout breaks our orbit. We both look down to see Ethan sprinting through the racks, looking incredibly sharp in a miniature version of Samuel’s charcoal suit, his hair neatly combed. He slides to a halt right beside us, his eyes shining.
“Can we go sit down now?” Ethan asks, looking up at us. “The music is starting!”
Samuel’s expression softens instantly, the lethal predator entirely replaced by the doting father. He bends down, scooping Ethan up into his powerful arms with practiced ease. “Of course we can, buddy. Let’s leave your mom to finish her masterpiece.”
He looks back at me, his dark eyes brimming with an absolute, unwavering devotion. He reaches out, his hand resting gently over mine on my pregnant stomach, capturing our past, our present, and our future in a single touch.
“Good luck, Ashley,” he says softly.
“I don’t need luck,” I reply, my smile bright, whole, and completely free. “I’ll see you in the front row.”
I watch them walk away—my husband, my son, and the new life growing inside me.
Six years ago, I was in a room like this, trapped by contracts, restlessness, and a fate I couldn’t control. Tonight, as the house lights begin to dim and the music starts to swell, I stand in the exact same world. But this time, there’s no fear. There’s no uncertainty. No restlessness.
There is only the life I chose, the man I love, and the beautiful, unbreakable fortress we built together.
*****
THE END