Epilogue 2 Stella
Istand in the furnace room, the contents of another delivery spread out and waiting to vanish.
Stacks of files, flash drives, crumpled papers, and incriminating Polaroids of a man with too much power and not enough restraint.
I never ask questions. The less I know, the better. I do my job. I clean the mess.
I press the button, and the flames roar to life, swallowing evidence, leverage, and entire histories.
Pages tremble before disintegrating, ink twisting into smoke.
Plastic warps, flash drives hissing as their secrets dissolve.
I always wait, always watch, entranced by the fire as it devours everything with the same hungry indifference.
Fire doesn’t discriminate. Fire doesn’t keep secrets. Fire just ends them.
When the heat dies down, I gather the ashes, carefully box them, and slip the melted metal into a separate bag for later disposal.
Order, precision. Carrington order. Once it’s logged in the furnace maintenance book, I tuck the ashes into the safe in my office that technically isn’t part of this building.
In a few days, when the next cemetery plot is dug, I’ll scatter them a few inches below, then backfill the ground to the perfect depth for a casket burial. No questions. No trace.
I switch off the lights on my way out of Fiori di Cenere and step into Carrington Caskets, where silence smells like sawdust and polish.
I pull out my leather-bound sketchbook and begin drafting—cherry wood, deep and rich.
Silver handles inlaid with heart-shaped obsidian, warding off negativity even in the afterlife—a half-couch casket with cream satin lining—exquisite, exactly as requested.
One half of me erases. The other half creates. Maybe that’s what it means to be a Carrington—fire in one hand, craft in the other.
When I finish, I head home. My bed is empty tonight. Elaine is at her apartment—for the last time ever—with Molly Adams and Samantha Beckett, the three bees buzzing around each other, pampering and laughing as they prepare for tomorrow.
But I’m not alone for long. The moment I walk through the door, I find Ansel and Blythe waiting in matching silk robes, glasses already in hand. Ansel tosses mine across the room. Slay Muffin, Sugar Plague, and Sinshine are embroidered on each one, ridiculous and perfect.
“About time,” Ansel smirks, pouring me tequila.
Blythe just smiles, soft and knowing, Sage’s tiny toy peeking out of her overnight bag like a blessing.
I shrug into my robe, laughter already bubbling in my chest. Tequila flows, music swells, and pampering begins—my last night as Stella Carrington alone. Tomorrow, I will not wake up alone ever again.
The tequila haze fades into morning light, and the next thing I know, I’m standing at the back of Our Lady of Sorrows, the old cathedral doors open wide, sunlight spilling across the aisle. My heart thrums like a drum in my chest.
Elaine waits at the altar. And God, she is devastating.
Her dress clings like it was made for her alone—ivory silk that gleams like water, the neckline daring but elegant, her hair loose around her shoulders in waves that catch the light.
She looks untouchable, ethereal, like the kind of woman kings would kneel for. She looks like mine.
I take a breath and step forward. My gown is everything Liliane Vexin promised it would be: black lace over satin, fitted to the waist before flowing into a spill of shadow, embroidered with tiny obsidian beads that catch glimmers of light.
A veil drapes down my back, sheer enough to reveal the storm in my eyes.
The guests blur around me. All I see is Elaine.
When I reach her, she reaches for me, and the world steadies. We stand together, side by side, the weight of legacy and ruin behind us, the weight of everything ahead of us.
The officiant speaks words I barely hear. Our vows are simple. Fierce. Elaine’s voice is steady as she promises forever. My own voice doesn’t waver when I tell her she is my fire, my ruin, my salvation.
“I do,” she says, her eyes locked on mine.
“I do,” I answer, and it is a vow, a curse, a prayer.
The kiss is thunder. Her mouth is on mine, urgent and certain, years of hunger and devotion crashing together. The hall erupts in applause, but all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears, the sound of her breath as she breaks the kiss.
Her lips brush my ear, her voice low enough for only me. “Stella,” she whispers, and my name sounds like worship. “I want to fall to my knees right here, on this altar. I want to worship you in front of God, in front of everyone, so the world knows you are mine.”
A shiver tears through me, my smile trembling on the edge of laughter and tears. I press my forehead to hers, breathless and undone.
The world can watch. The world can burn. She is my truth, my altar, my fire, and my forever, the only eternity I believe in.
And if ruin is the price of loving her, I would pay it in every life.