Epilogue 2 Kelly
I can’t believe this.
I’m sitting at a wedding on a damn mountain—twinkle lights, fresh air, enough romance in the air to make you gag—and somehow I’m not crying. Not right now, anyway.
Because I’ve had my fill of tears.
Evan is spending the night with his paternal grandparents, and thank God for that.
Unlike Mike Stevens—my ex piece of shit husband, officially, as of forty-seven minutes ago—his parents aren’t lying, cheating, pencil-dicked weasels.
They love their grandson. They show up. They pack him extra snacks and make sure his favorite pajamas make it into the overnight bag.
So yes. They get to see him.
Mike hasn’t asked for visitation.
Not once.
Apparently Stormee doesn’t “do kids,” which makes sense, considering she practically is one.
Twenty-something and smug and probably still calls her mother to ask how long to microwave ramen.
Whatever.
I don’t have the energy to be jealous of a girl who thinks stealing a married man is a personality.
I have a kid. I have a house. I have a life that I’m rebuilding with my bare hands and a lot of swearing.
Still, when Clara and Greyson cut the cake—her in that butter-yellow fairy gown, him looking like he could tear the world in half if anyone looked at her wrong—I feel something in my chest loosen.
It’s beautiful.
It’s real.
It’s the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission.
And I hate how much it makes me want things.
More wine, for starters.
Because fuck this whole fucking year.
“Mind if I join you?”
The voice is rough. Familiar.
I don’t have to look up to know who it is, but I do anyway—because I’m me, and I like to confirm which billionaire is about to ruin my peace.
Leonard J.T. Lawrence himself lowers into the chair beside me like he owns it.
Which, given the way that man operates, he probably thinks he owns the whole mountain.
“Suit yourself,” I mutter.
He looks strangely out of place up here.
The suit is expensive but understated.
The hair is silver at the temples. Long, but held back in a low ponytail.
The face is slightly lined and tanned in a way that says he’s spent a lifetime barking orders and sleeping three hours a night.
He smells faintly like cedar and cologne that costs more than my first car.
He watches the dance floor a moment, expression unreadable.
Then he glances at me.
“You look rough, Kelly.”
I snort. “Wow. Gold star for honesty.”
A corner of his mouth twitches like he might be amused against his will. “I’m not here to fight.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I say, sipping my wine.
His gaze shifts to the tent, where Willow is spinning in a slow dance with Thatcher, her hand on her belly, laughing like she doesn’t have a single ounce of fear left in her body.
Then his eyes track to Greyson and Clara again.
“Your sister-in-law did good,” he says.
“She did,” I agree, quieter than I intend.
He nods once, then settles back like he’s decided something.
I don’t like that.
Men deciding things near me is a sore spot.
“So,” I say flatly. “What do you want, Mr. Lawrence?”
He doesn’t bristle.
Doesn’t puff up.
Doesn’t play power games the way Mike used to when he wanted something from me.
Instead, he looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I want to make sure you and your boy are taken care of.”
My spine goes rigid.
I laugh once. Sharp.
“Oh, is this the part where you offer me charity? Because I promise you, I’m not—”
“It’s not charity,” he cuts in, voice still calm. “It’s strategy.”
That makes me pause.
Because that is the most Leonard J.T. Lawrence sentence I’ve ever heard.
“What kind of strategy involves me?” I ask, suspicious.
“The kind where I don’t like loose ends,” he says simply.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His gaze flicks to the edge of the tent where Mike’s parents are packing up Evan’s overnight bag.
The older woman wipes frosting off Evan’s cheek with a tenderness that nearly guts me.
“I’ve known the McCraes and the Stevens families a long time,” Lawrence says. “And I know what that man did to you.”
I swallow. “Everybody knows. He made sure of it.”
“I also know he drained your accounts,” Lawrence continues, tone turning a shade colder. “And touched your son’s college money.”
My grip tightens on my wineglass.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “He did.”
Lawrence’s jaw flexes once. Controlled anger.
“Well,” he says, “that won’t stand.”
I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You gonna send him a strongly worded email, Mr. Lawrence?”
His gaze cuts to me. “No.”
The single syllable lands heavy.
My pulse kicks.
Because I’ve heard stories about this man.
J.T. Lawrence Construction—top builder in the state, ruthless as hell, the kind of name that makes people straighten their backs when they say it.
He kept the mill afloat back when Thatcher was barely old enough to shave and his father was still trying to figure out how not to lose everything.
Lawrence has power.
And power—real power—always comes with teeth.
“Kelly,” he says, and my name coming out of his mouth makes it feel like a contract. “You deserve more than survival mode.”
My throat tightens, and I hate it.
Hate that he can say one sentence and hit a bruise I’ve been pretending isn’t there.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.
He watches me for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he slides something across the table.
A card.
Minimal. Crisp. Raised lettering.
A private number.
My stomach drops.
“What is this?” I ask.
“It’s a direct line,” he says. “For when you decide you’re done playing nice.”
My heart stutters.
I should be offended.
Should be scared.
Should shove it back and tell him to go to hell.
But then I think of Evan’s college fund—Evan’s future—being ripped away like it was nothing.
I think of the way Mike looked at me when he left.
Like I was an inconvenience.
A burden.
I think of Stormee’s smug face, probably wearing Mike’s robe or some miniscule piece of clothing I could use as a dish towel in their new house.
And something in me hardens.
“Why do you care?” I demand. “You barely know me.”
Lawrence leans in slightly, voice dropping so no one else can hear.
“Oh, I’ve been watching you a long time, Kelly McCrae,” he says, “And I don’t like bullies or gossips.”
I stare at him.
My sarcasm tries to rise. My defenses try to snap into place.
But the truth is, no one has ever offered me protection like it’s a given.
Like it’s an entitlement I should’ve had all along.
I swallow, jaw tight. “What’s the catch?”
His gaze holds mine, unflinching.
“The catch,” he says, “is that you stop trying to do it all alone. You let someone help.”
I laugh, breathy and bitter. “Someone meaning you.”
“Someone meaning me,” he agrees easily.
That ease is dangerous.
That confidence is dangerous.
Because for one horrible second, my brain supplies an image of what it would feel like to have someone like Leonard J.T. Lawrence on my side.
Not Mike’s parents.
Not lawyers.
Not paperwork.
A man who knows how to build things—and destroy them.
I hate that the thought makes my stomach flip.
I hate that I’m… curious.
I sit back, crossing my arms. “And what exactly do you propose?”
His eyes flick to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
Slow.
Measuring.
Like he’s reading my limits.
Then he says, calm as if he’s ordering coffee:
“An arrangement.”
I blink. “An arrangement.”
He nods once. “Permanent. Beneficial.”
My pulse is loud in my ears.
“Beneficial how?” I ask, even though my brain is screaming at me to stand up and walk away.
Lawrence’s mouth curves—not a smile. Not really.
More like satisfaction.
“I can make your ex regret every cent he stole,” he says softly. “I can make sure your son’s future is secure. I can make sure you’re not scrambling while you rebuild your life.”
I stare at him, wine forgotten.
“And what do you get?” I whisper.
His gaze darkens, just a shade.
“You,” he says.
The word hits me like a slap.
Heat. Anger. Shock.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, voice roughening, “I’m a man who gets what he wants. And I want you. You’ll be safe, provided for, and under my protection.”
I should be furious.
I should throw my drink in his face.
But I’m sitting here in the aftermath of a wedding where a man looked at a woman like she was his whole world, and I’m so tired—so tired—of being the woman who holds everything together with duct tape and grit.
I swallow hard. “So you’re offering me what? A business deal? A—”
“A proposal,” he corrects, eyes steady.
My breath catches.
“God,” I mutter. “You’re insane.”
His voice drops lower. “You’d be surprised how often that’s been said to me.”
I stare at him for a long moment, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.
Then I pick up the card.
Turn it between my fingers.
Set it down again.
And meet his eyes like a challenge.
“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You’re telling me you can ruin Mike Stevens, restore my son’s college fund, and keep me from drowning, and all you want is me.”
Lawrence doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
I laugh once. “That’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” he says, calm as sin, “you’re still sitting here.”
My throat tightens.
Because he’s right.
I am.
I shouldn’t be.
But I am.
The music swells behind us. Clara laughs somewhere near the dance floor. Greyson spins her like she weighs nothing.
Love.
Hope.
New beginnings.
And here I am with a man who looks like a storm in a suit, offering me the kind of leverage I’ve never had in my life.
I look at his card again.
Then, I lick my lips.
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