Epilogue
Natalie
I’m still not used to waking up to this view.
Our house is halfway up the hill, hidden behind eucalyptus trees and thick hedges.
It’s a modern estate with sharp lines, wide terraces, and massive glass windows that catch every bit of morning light.
The lawn is perfectly manicured, designed with these sweeping geometric patterns and there’s an actual black horse sculpture.
The whole place is private, dramatic, and a little ridiculous, in a good way.
Max was our realtor, which in hindsight might’ve been a risky move. By the end, I think he was ready to quit on us. Henry was so picky. Every house had something wrong with it. But then this one came up and we both knew. This was it.
Henry used to swear he’d never live up here.
He said it was too quiet and removed. Then I got pregnant and suddenly we needed a yard, space, air, and seven bedrooms for the three of us.
I’m not complaining. The views alone are worth the commute.
On clear mornings like this, you can see the whole city with that soft golden light everything has before the sun gets too bright.
I stretch, slip out of bed, and the smell of pancakes finds me. I smile, pull on my robe, and head toward the kitchen.
“You’re up early,” I say, leaning in the doorway.
“Not by choice,” Henry says.
Our son, James, is strapped to his chest in a soft gray baby carrier, nestled against him like a little burrito. He only sleeps if Henry keeps moving, so Henry’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, doing this slow little dance while flipping pancakes.
Our kitchen looks like it was lifted straight from a magazine.
Clean white cabinetry, polished marble counters and a double island setup that makes cooking feel glamorous.
A full glass wall opens to the patio, letting in light.
The appliances are top-of-the-line, hidden behind custom panels like they’re part of the design.
“Breakfast is served,” he says, setting the final pancake on the stack. It’s golden, fluffy, and looks like it belongs in a cookbook.
When I got pregnant, Henry decided it was time to step up.
Apparently me cooking—or relying on takeout—was no longer acceptable.
So he recruited Dean to teach him. Dean approached the whole thing like a boot camp, spatula and all.
It worked. Henry can cook now. Just the basics, but he’s very proud, and honestly, he should be.
He’s taking the whole dad thing very seriously too.
James is three months old now, and Henry’s read every parenting book he can get his hands on.
He joined a dad group, learned how to swaddle like a pro and keeps a shared spreadsheet of nap times and feeding windows.
He knows the difference between the tired cry and the hungry one and he’s somehow memorized the lullaby rotation better than I have.
He’s also taken parental leave so I can keep working. I’m on reduced hours but the business still needs me. My business.
When fashion shut its doors on me, I decided to pivot. So I started a marketing agency. No more bosses. No more approval chains. I run the show now.
At first, I was going to call it Wright Marketing but people kept thinking it was a pun, like “the right marketing,” which felt way too cheesy. Henry suggested Carter Marketing instead. It sounded clean, professional and once we got married, it made sense.
I won’t pretend I built it in a vacuum. His last name opened doors. His connections helped. But I still had to walk through every single one of them and prove I deserved to be there. And not to sound full of myself, but it’s going very, very well.
We’ve already grown to a team of five. Rebecca started as a marketing assistant and she’s already outpacing half the senior staff. She’s due for a promotion.
It turns out getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Vue’s floundering again. I wish I could say I’m surprised but I’m not.
Cosmo swung too far in the other direction.
He brought in a street artist to rebrand.
It was…a choice. Bold, chaotic, and completely off the mark.
Vue lost its footing again. I tell myself it’s not my problem anymore.
Still, every now and then, I catch myself drafting emails to Cosmo with suggestions.
I never send them. I just delete them and move on.
“Well?” Henry asks as I take a mouthful.
“Do you need me to tell you they’re good every time?” I ask.
“I do,” he says. He notices he’s standing still and begins moving about again.
“They’re perfect,” I say, smiling and he smiles back.
“Almost forgot. We’re going to Will and Abigail’s this weekend,” he says.
“Why?” I ask, even though we both know exactly what weekend it is.
“…because it’s your birthday.”
“I told you not to tell anyone.”
“You did but then I told Abigail,” he says. “She responded by inviting everyone we know.”
He starts ticking them off as he moves around the kitchen. “My mom. Dean. Max. Your parents—”
“Henry—”
“And it’s supposed to be a surprise,” he adds. “But I know you hate surprises. So act surprised.”
I drop my shoulders. It’s hard to stay mad at Abigail. She’s so warm and charming. The kind of woman who makes friends in elevators and somehow convinces you to RSVP to your own party before you realize it’s for you.
“That’s nice of her,” I say, finally. “It’ll be good to have everyone together.”
Even my parents. I told them the truth, finally.
That Henry is a Carter. As in, the fashion house.
My mom went pale for a second. I thought she might faint.
She didn’t but she did go very quiet and she looked at Henry a little funny for a while.
She got over it…then she saw our house. She’s still adjusting.
It feels good to finally be honest. No downplaying. No spinning. Just letting them see my life for what it is. Still, there’s always a flicker of embarrassment when they step into this world. It’s just so far from anything they’ve ever known.
I glance down at James. His tiny face is soft and relaxed, his chest rising and falling steadily against Henry’s. He looks just like him with the same blue eyes, same dark hair—he was born with a full head—and same crooked little smirk.
“You’re good at this,” I say as I take Henry in.
“If by ‘this’ you mean elite-level spit-up dodging, then yes. I’m undefeated.”
I point at the crusted patch on his t-shirt. “Not that undefeated.”
He glances down, sighs. “Damn.”
I grin. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t walked into that conference room at the Westmere two years ago. If I hadn’t stood my ground while he tried to bulldoze Vue. Back then, I thought winning meant taking Carter down. Now? Now I am a Carter. Life has a weird sense of humor.
And as I stand here while my son naps against my husband’s chest, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Henry
The place looks as extravagant as Versailles.
Florals are draped over every surface. String lights wrap around the trees.
There are three separate grazing tables including one just for desserts.
There’s a cake big enough to feed the entire Carter corporate team, and, for some reason, a giant cookie that says Happy Birthday, Natalie in gold script.
Abigail swore she’d keep things simple. Then Mom got involved, insisted on hosting, and things escalated. Fast. What was supposed to be a quiet afternoon in the garden turned into a full-blown birthday gala.
Natalie throws me a look from across the yard. One of those this was not the plan looks. I hold up my hands in surrender. She’s not big on being made a fuss of but she’ll forgive me. Eventually. Probably when she tastes the cookie. It’s delicious.
Mom’s in her element, floating from guest to guest in something linen and vaguely Mediterranean.
She adores Natalie. Last week, I caught her bragging to a colleague.
She repeated something Natalie said about one of the spring pieces, like Natalie’s opinion was the only one that matters.
I can’t blame her. Natalie knows what she’s talking about.
The twins are in a playpen on the grass, surrounded by toys they have no intention of sharing. Alex—at least I think it’s Alex—whacks Ben on the head with a block. Abigail, sitting nearby, doesn’t even flinch.
“Gentle hands,” she says, like she’s said it a hundred times already today.
A few feet away, Harvey lounges in a lawn chair with a half-melted ice cream, talking at a pace that suggests no one’s been able to get a word in for twenty minutes.
Will runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer now, curling wild at the edges, streaked with gray. His shoulders are slightly hunched. Smile a little delayed. Like the exhaustion isn’t temporary anymore. Maybe some of that’s turning forty. Most of it’s probably in having three kids.
Harvey eventually abandons the ice cream and bolts for the playpen. I take a seat beside Will and hand James over. He takes him like he’s done it a thousand times, barely looks down.
“You look tired,” I say.
Will glances at James, then at me, like he’s just remembered where he is. “Stop at one,” he says.
“You’re done?”
“Oh yeah. Got the snip.”
“Abigail didn’t want to try for a girl?”
Will shakes his head. “We’d end up with four boys. The Carter curse. Not that boys are a curse,” he says, “it just sounds catchy.”
I roll my eyes. There’s no curse. Okay, so no girls in the family but that’s coincidence, not magic.
“We’ll have a girl next,” I say.
“Hope you do.”
Dean drops into the chair next to us. “What’s SaveMore?” he asks, dead serious.
“You’ve been talking to Mary.”
“She said she saw a pair just like these for $19.99.” Dean grimaces, staring down at his shoes. He only wears Italian leather.
“$19.99 feels generous,” I say.
He shoots me a look, sharp and unimpressed.
“Where’s Max?” I ask.