EPILOGUE
Bryony
Six Months Later
The morning sun filtered through the curtains of our bedroom, casting golden light across the white sheets tangled around my legs.
I stretched slowly, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles well-used but no longer broken.
No pain. No stiffness. Just the warm, languid satisfaction of waking up next to the man I loved.
Deangelo's arm was draped across my waist, his chest pressed against my back, his breath warm against my neck. Even in sleep, he held me like he was afraid I might disappear.
I turned carefully in his arms, not wanting to wake him yet, and studied his face in the soft morning light.
The sharp line of his jaw, the dark lashes resting against his cheeks, the faint scar above his left eyebrow from some childhood accident he'd never fully explained.
He looked peaceful. Younger, somehow, without the weight of worry he'd carried for so long.
Six months ago, I'd woken up in a hospital bed, broken and terrified, not knowing who had tried to kill me or why. Six months ago, I'd been married to a man who'd betrayed me in every way that mattered.
Now, I was free.
The divorce had been finalized three weeks ago.
Henrik hadn't contested it—he couldn't, not after everything that had come to light.
The affair. The life insurance policy he'd taken out on me six months before the accident.
The fact that he'd dismissed every warning sign, every concern I'd raised about being watched and followed.
He hadn't tried to kill me—that had been someone else entirely, someone Luca had dealt with in the way only Luca could—but Henrik's negligence, his infidelity, his complete failure to protect me had been damning enough.
The court had granted me the divorce without hesitation, and Henrik had been left with nothing but his guilt and the wreckage of his reputation.
I'd heard through Luca that Henrik had moved to another state, trying to rebuild his life somewhere no one knew his name. Part of me hoped he'd learned something from it all. But mostly, I just didn't think about him anymore.
He was the past. And I was done living there.
Deangelo stirred, his eyes fluttering open. When he saw me watching him, a slow smile spread across his face.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I whispered back.
He pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then my nose, then my lips—soft and unhurried, like we had all the time in the world.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked.
"Better than I have in years."
It was true. The nightmares had finally stopped. The fear that someone was watching me, waiting to hurt me again, had faded. In Deangelo's arms, in this house that Luca had helped us find—secure, private, surrounded by people who would die before they let anyone hurt me—I felt safe.
For the first time in my life, I felt truly safe.
"Good," Deangelo said, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. "You deserve to sleep well. You deserve everything good."
I smiled, my chest tightening with emotion. "I have everything good. I have you."
His eyes darkened, and he kissed me again, deeper this time, his hand sliding down my side to rest on my hip. "You've always had me, Ginny. From the moment I met you, you've had me."
I knew that now. I understood what I'd been too afraid to see before—that Deangelo had loved me long before I'd ever loved myself. That he'd been waiting, patient and steady, for me to find my way back to him.
And I had.
"I love you," I said softly, the words still new enough to feel like a gift every time I said them.
"I love you too," he replied, his voice fierce with conviction. "More than anything."
We stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, until the smell of coffee drifted up from downstairs and I realized Luca must have let himself in.
Deangelo groaned. "Your brother has the worst timing."
I laughed, sitting up and reaching for the oversized t-shirt I'd discarded on the floor the night before. "He's probably making breakfast. You know how he gets."
"Overprotective and overbearing?"
"Exactly."
Deangelo sat up too, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and we made our way downstairs together.
Luca was in the kitchen, as expected, standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked up when we entered, his expression softening when he saw me.
"Morning, Ginny," he said, setting his phone down. "I made pancakes."
"You didn't have to do that," I said, though I was already moving toward the counter where a stack of golden pancakes sat waiting.
"I wanted to," Luca said simply. "Besides, Deangelo can't cook for shit."
"Hey," Deangelo protested, though he didn't argue.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, watching the two of them bicker good-naturedly. This was my family now. Not the cold, distant world I'd run away from, but something warm and real and solid.
Luca had changed too, in the months since the accident. He was still ruthless, still dangerous, still the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid. But with me, he was gentle. Protective in a way that didn't feel suffocating anymore.
He'd been the one to take care of the man who'd tampered with my brakes—a stalker just trying to get my attention. Luca had dealt with him swiftly and without mercy, and I hadn't asked for details. I didn't need to know. I just needed to know I was safe.
And I was.
"So," Luca said, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of me. "Deangelo told me you two are thinking about taking a trip."
I glanced at Deangelo, who shrugged. "I mentioned it."
"Where are you thinking?" Luca asked.
"Italy," I said. "I've always wanted to see where our family came from."
Luca's expression softened even further. "I think that's a good idea. You should go. See the world. Be happy."
"I am happy," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "I'm really, really happy."
And I was.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't running from anything. I wasn't hiding, wasn't pretending, wasn't trying to be someone I wasn't.
I was just... me. Ginevra Carmine. Bryony was a name I'd taken to escape, but I didn't need to escape anymore.
I was home.
After breakfast, Luca left, and Deangelo and I spent the rest of the morning on the back patio, drinking coffee and talking about nothing and everything.
He told me about a new business deal he was working on with Luca, and I told him about the online classes I'd started taking—literature and creative writing, things I'd always been interested in but never had the courage to pursue.
"You're going to be amazing at it," Deangelo said, his hand resting on my knee.
"You have to say that. You're biased."
"I'm not biased. I'm right."
I laughed, leaning into him, and he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.
"I'm proud of you, you know," he said quietly. "For everything you've been through. For how strong you are."
"I'm not that strong," I said.
"You are," he insisted. "You survived something that would have broken most people. And you came out the other side better, not bitter. That takes strength."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just kissed him, pouring everything I felt into that single moment.
When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine. "I'm never letting you go, Ginny. You know that, right?"
"I know," I whispered. "And I'm never letting you go either."
We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the world quiet and still around us.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of the future.
I was looking forward to it.