Epilogue
PAIGE
Six Months Later
The dead of winter in the Pacific Northwest possesses a specific, relentless chill. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the seventy-second floor, the Seattle skyline was a blurred watercolor of gray and steel, battered by freezing rain.
But inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was radically different.
In the past, this open-concept apartment had felt like a refrigerated tomb—a sterile fortress of sharp lines and untouchable art that physically manifested my isolation.
Now, it was practically unrecognizable. The custom suede sectional was buried under a chaotic mountain of woven throw blankets.
A dog-eared stack of audition headshots sat unapologetically on the glass coffee table next to a half-empty mug of herbal tea.
The museum-quality abstract painting in the entryway had been replaced by a candid black-and-white photograph from my opening night—capturing Malcolm and me standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the shadows.
Every inch of the massive space was vibrant, warm, and unapologetically lived-in.
I took a sip of my sparkling water, my eyes drifting back to the man on the other side of the black marble island.
Malcolm was finishing dinner, folding grated parmesan into a pan of wild mushroom risotto.
He wore soft, worn-in gray sweatpants and a fitted black henley, his bare feet planted firmly against the heated hardwood.
There was no glowing laptop charting profit margins.
Most importantly, his encrypted corporate phone was sitting completely dead and ignored in a ceramic bowl by the door.
The radical transparency we’d established hadn’t been an empty promise.
Malcolm had built an iron fortress around it.
He had returned to his firm as CEO, but the dynamic had irreparably changed.
He no longer worshiped the skyline. If an international investor demanded a midnight call, he let it ring.
He had explicitly instructed his assistants that my theater productions held absolute priority, proving it by sitting in the front row of every Sunday matinee.
He had learned how to leave the ruthless titan on the ground floor. Here, he was just my husband.
Turning down the flame, Malcolm wiped his hands on a dark linen towel.
The raw blisters and deep lacerations he’d sustained hauling steamer trunks through the freezing rain were long gone.
But the soft skin of a billionaire executive had been permanently replaced by a layer of tough calluses.
He occupied the kitchen with a quiet, steady devotion, fully present in his own body.
“The risotto needs five minutes to set,” he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room.
He walked around the island, stepping between my parted knees to rest his hands warmly on my hips.
“How are the script revisions coming along? You’ve been chewing on the inside of your cheek for twenty minutes. ”
I looked into his clear, focused gray eyes. “The revisions are fine,” I lied softly, my heart giving an erratic kick. I’d spent the afternoon staring at those pages, but my mind was entirely consumed by the life-altering secret burning a hole in my cardigan pocket.
He tilted his head, his dark brows drawing together. He could read the microscopic shifts in my mood with the precision of an architect spotting a hairline fracture.
“You’re lying,” he stated, affectionate amusement coloring his tone as he pulled me closer to the edge of the barstool. “Did the lighting company try to double the deposit? Because if they try to leverage your budget, I will buy the warehouse and fire the regional manager by tomorrow morning.”
I let out a breathless laugh, resting my hands flat against the solid expanse of his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. “You cannot just buy out every local business that inconveniences me, Malcolm.”
“I just claimed to be fiercely protective of your stress levels,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss beneath my jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against my neck. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” I whispered.
My hands were actually shaking as I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a small, rectangular box wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with cotton twine, placing it flat on the cool marble. I slid it forward until it touched his hand.
“Open it,” I managed to say past the thick knot in my throat.
The playful amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cautious, highly attuned curiosity.
He sensed the heavy gravity entering the room.
Without hesitation, his calloused fingers carefully untied the twine.
He unfolded the paper with meticulous precision, treating the small object like a priceless artifact, and lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on white tissue paper, was a standard plastic pregnancy test.
The digital display stared straight up at the ceiling, the word PREGNANT illuminated clearly on the tiny screen.
For five agonizing, suspended seconds, the penthouse fell into stunning silence. The howling wind outside faded away. Malcolm simply stopped breathing.
I watched the realization strike him—not as a slow dawn, but as a massive, world-altering shockwave. The ruthless executive who handled complex structural calculations while staring down hostile investors was instantly undone by a three-inch piece of plastic.
“Paige,” he breathed, the sound completely fractured.
His knees literally gave out.
The towering architectural titan sank directly to the hardwood floor, dropping heavily to his knees between my legs. His trembling hands gripped my hips with fierce, possessive desperation as he buried his face in my stomach.
A hot rush of tears broke free from my lashes.
I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, holding him against me as his massive shoulders began to shake.
He let out a low, wrecked sound—a devastating combination of pure awe, overwhelming relief, and terrifying joy.
The detached, emotionally starved billionaire was gone.
The man weeping quietly against my sweater understood the priceless value of the life we were creating, already fiercely devoted to the child growing inside his sanctuary.
“A baby,” Malcolm whispered, his voice muffled. He pressed his lips fiercely against the cotton of my shirt, directly over my womb. “Paige... my god. We’re having a baby.”
“We’re having a baby,” I confirmed with a wet laugh, stroking the back of his neck. “I’ve been staring at the wall all afternoon waiting for you to come home.”
He slowly lifted his head. His bloodshot gray eyes shone with unshed tears and a look of pure, raw worship. Surging upward, his hands slid to my ribs, hauling me effortlessly off the barstool and into his chest.
His mouth came down over mine with deep, agonizingly sweet tenderness. He kissed me like I was oxygen, his thumbs gently wiping the tears from my cheeks. I melted against him, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck.
But as the kiss deepened, the quiet reverence was rapidly swallowed by the heavy friction of our bodies. Malcolm’s hands tightened aggressively on my waist. His mouth grew hungrier, a high-heat passion igniting in his blood that sent a wild, reckless thrill straight to my core.
He broke the kiss, both of us gasping for air. His eyes darkened, the tears replaced by an intensely possessive warmth that made my pulse thunder.
“Those tests have failure rates,” he whispered, his voice a dark, gravelly register as his hands gripped the backs of my thighs. “Are you sure you want to risk it, Paige?”
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s highly accurate. Definitive.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, biting gently at my earlobe. “But an elite builder never relies solely on the initial diagnostic, sweetheart. I always double-check the foundation. And I feel the absolute professional necessity to take you to bed right now... just to make absolute sure.”
I let out a soft, genuine laugh, wrapping my arms tighter around his broad shoulders in unconditional surrender. “Then you should probably carry out your inspection, Mr. Klein.”
Malcolm didn’t hesitate. He hoisted me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He didn’t care about the dinner simmering on the stove or the script revisions on the counter.
Completely consumed by the family we were building, he carried me out of the kitchen with a determined, powerful stride.
As we stepped through the threshold into the dark warmth of our master suite, Malcolm didn’t break his burning gaze from mine. He reached back blindly with one calloused hand, grabbing the heavy iron handle of the solid oak door.
With a firm pull, he swung it shut behind us. The heavy latch clicked into place with a satisfying finality, leaving the rest of the world, the skyline, and the shadows completely locked outside. Our foundation was finally poured, perfectly level, and permanently unbreakable.