Epilogue 1 - Julian
One year should not feel like this.
I’ve marked years by acquisitions, by expansions, by milestones that came with numbers attached. I’ve celebrated anniversaries with champagne flutes raised in rooms where everyone wanted something from me. I’ve measured success in margins, leverage, and power.
None of that prepared me for this.
For the way the date sits in my soul, heavy with meaning.
For the way my hands shake, not with fear, but with the awareness that I am standing inside something I once believed I wasn't capable of having.
One year of marriage.
I wake before Lucy does, because I like watching the morning find her. The city is still quiet, light barely touching the windows, and she’s curled on her side facing me, one arm tucked beneath her chin.
Her breathing is slow. Even. Peaceful.
I don’t touch her right away. I’ve learned that stillness can be a form of devotion.
I think about the man I was a year ago, sharp-edged, convinced that love was something you negotiated rather than trusted. A man who believed permanence was a liability. A man who didn’t understand that choosing someone every day would become the most grounding force of his life.
Lucy shifts slightly, her brow creasing as she surfaces from sleep.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice rough and warm.
“Happy anniversary,” I say quietly.
She smiles, wide and sleepy, and reaches for me without opening her eyes. Her hand finds my chest like it knows exactly where I am.
“Already?” she asks with a grin that tells me she knows exactly what today is and what it means to us.
“Already,” I confirm.
She opens her eyes then, and something in me steadies the way it always does when she looks at me like that. Like I’m real. Like I’m hers.
She has no idea what I’ve planned.
The thought almost makes me laugh.
The day unfolds slowly. I insisted on no meetings, no calls, no interruptions. The world can survive without me for twenty-four hours. I learned that lesson the hard way.
Lucy spends the morning checking in with her mother, who is stronger now, not healed, not untouched by everything she’s endured, but present. Engaged. Laughing again. Watching her daughters with pride instead of fear.
I watch Lucy on the phone from across the room, the way she leans against the counter, one foot tucked behind the other, fingers worrying at her sleeve while she listens.
This is who she is when she loves.
Fully. Fiercely. Without reserve.
It humbles me every time.
By late afternoon, I’m restless. Not anxious, but... excited. Vulnerable. The kind of anticipation that has nothing to do with outcomes and everything to do with meaning.
I walk into our bedroom and see Lucy stepping into the dress I hoped she’d choose. The one that moves when she walks, that reminds me of Paris and laughter and the quiet moment in the car when everything changed.
I keep my expression neutral. Barely.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You always say that.”
“Because you always are.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’re being weird.”
“Impossible,” I reply. “This is my natural charm.”
She laughs, shaking her head,
“Can you help me with the zipper?” she asks lightly. “It’s… snug.”
I move behind her, fingers finding the familiar line of the dress. I tug gently.
It doesn’t move.
I frown. “That’s strange.”
She turns then, slowly, guiding my hands away from the zipper and down, just enough.
Enough to feel it.
Enough to understand.
Her voice is soft when she says it.
“It’s not the dress.”
The world tilts.
I look at her, really look at her, and see it. The glow. The subtle change. The truth waiting patiently for me to catch up.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words swallow me whole. I sink to my knees without thinking, pressing my forehead to her barely there bump, overwhelmed by a joy so profound it leaves me breathless. Tears come fast and unashamed, and I don’t stop them.
“Hi,” I whisper, my hand spread protectively over her. “I’m your dad.”
Lucy laughs through her tears, her fingers threading into my hair.
“We’re okay,” she whispers. “We’re really okay.”
I stand, lifting her into my arms, holding her like the miracle she is.
The car ride is quiet. Lucy hums along to the music, her fingers tracing idle patterns against my hand. I wonder, not for the first time, how I lived without this.
When the car stops, and the driver opens the door, Lucy steps out first.
She takes two steps.
Then she stops.
The light spilling from the restaurant doorway paints her silhouette gold, and for a moment she doesn’t move at all. Her breath catches and her hand tightens around mine.
She turns slowly.
“Julian…” Her voice wavers. “What did you do?”
Inside, the room unfolds exactly as I imagined it. Familiar faces. Warm smiles. People who stayed when things were messy, who didn’t disappear when loyalty became inconvenient.
Her mother stands near Emily, her hand resting lightly on her daughter’s arm.
Theo is already grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.
Caleb watches Lucy with quiet approval. Rowan gives me a look that says you did good.
Even Graham is there, leaning back with his arms crossed, studying Lucy like he’s proud of her.
Lucy’s hand flies to her mouth.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh my god.”
She turns to me, eyes shining, overwhelmed and undone in the most beautiful way.
“For us,” I say. “For one year. For the celebration we didn't have when we married.”
She doesn’t respond. She just steps into her mother’s arms, and I watch the two of them hold each other like survivors who made it through the storm together.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t rush her.
This night isn’t about spectacle.
It’s about showing her my love.
Lucy makes her way through the room slowly, hugging, laughing, and crying. I watch as Elliot wraps her in a big hug, and it takes everything in me not to run over and bubble wrap her. Yell at everyone and tell them to be careful with her.
When she comes back to me, she slips her hand into mine and squeezes.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For choosing me,” I reply.
Her eyes warm to the amber hue I love.
Later, when the noise has faded and the city hums quietly below us, we return to the penthouse.
Lucy is tired in that deep, satisfying way that follows joy. She kicks off her shoes, sighs, and leans against the counter while I pour her a glass of water.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says carefully, “How are you feeling about the baby.”
I turn. “You deserved it.”
She smiles, and I move closer. "I am terrified and so excited it's almost painful. But I am so happy and lucky to get to experience it all with you."
Lucy's smile is blinding, and I clutch at my chest to try and stop my heart from bursting out of me. She steps into my arms, and we slowly start to move as one, swaying in each other's arms, a perfect way to end the day.
Later, after Lucy has fallen asleep, I remain awake.
The city glows beyond the windows, distant and small. Lucy lies curled against my side, one hand resting unconsciously over her belly.
I place my palm there gently, reverently.
“I didn’t know how to be loved,” I whisper into the quiet. “But she taught me.”
I pause, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
“I promise you something,” I continue softly. “I will choose you every day. Both of you. Even when I’m afraid. Especially when I’m afraid.”
Lucy shifts, murmuring in her sleep, and I smile.
For the first time in my life, the future doesn’t feel like a cold.
It feels like home.