Chapter 11
AMELIA
If love was a war, Gage Black fought until there was nothing left of him but me.
He waited through every second of the silence I made him sit in.
In the ache. In the hollow spaces I left behind.
And he would have waited forever.
Even if I never came back.
Forty-four days ago, he married me in the quiet hush of my condo, with nothing but our vows and the sound of our hearts joining to mark the moment. And every day since, he’s loved me like it was still that day, like the whole world narrowed to a single, sacred truth: us.
No grand gestures. No noise. Just a devotion so constant, so fierce, it rebuilt every broken thing inside me without ever asking for anything in return.
And now, as we turn off the country road and drive through the towering black wrought iron gates of the private estate we chose together—Blackbriar, spelled in elegant scrollwork across the arch with a gold flourish sweeping beneath it—I see what that kind of love looks like when it takes up space in the world.
A love that dreams together. A love that grows roots no storm can tear up.
Most people dream of fairy tales.
Gage Black built me a kingdom.
The estate stretches out in front of us, wild and sprawling, tucked into the rolling hills of the Hudson Valley, just past a small town called Avelen Hollow.
It’s the kind of town that has one stoplight, a florist who also sells spell jars, and a bookstore where half the shelves are organized by emotional damage.
Quiet. A little eccentric. Full of people who remember your coffee order and leave you alone when you're not in the mood to talk.
The trees here are mostly bare now, their branches stretched like bones against the pale autumn sky. But some still hold on. Pockets of gold and copper blaze stubbornly at the tips, catching what little sun the season has left.
The main house rises at the heart of it.
A historic stone manor, weathered and strong, its old walls threaded with ivy and crowned by windows that shimmer like they’re feeling every good thing I am and just can’t hide it.
This home looks like it’s lived a hundred lives already, and somehow still has room to hold ours.
Beyond the main house, gravel paths split off like veins across the property. There are eight guest cottages dotted through the trees, so that no matter how many people we love, there’s space for all of them to belong here with us.
Past the cracked fountain that still runs, tucked between gardens gone a little quiet now, the last of the roses cling to their stems. There’s color in the hedges, in the vines, in the way the meadows don’t stop blooming just because the calendar says they should.
Two new buildings nestle against the garden’s edge to our left, meant for soft things, built with love.
One’s a library, quiet and full of windows, where I can disappear into my books.
The other’s a music studio, closer to the woods, because even when I told Gage I wouldn’t work here, he built it anyway. Just so I’d have what I needed in case.
On the other side of the estate, a new glass greenhouse rises in the clearing. Tall, elegant, and almost too beautiful to be real with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and a high soaring glass ceiling. Gage built it for the wedding, but it already feels like it belongs here.
Gravel crunches under the tires as we pull forward, and I look up at the towering old oaks and maples that stand like sentinels over us.
Blackbriar isn’t polished perfection. It’s weathered beauty.
Imperfections we’ve left untouched because they feel real, alive, like us.
It’s the kind of place where you can spill a little wine, laugh too loud, and fall in love again without worrying about breaking anything.
Only Gage Black could will a kingdom into existence in under two months. Don’t ask me how he pulled it off. He says “permits” and “contractors” and something about imported steel.
I say obsession. Devotion. And an army of very well-paid tradesmen who definitely didn’t expect a billionaire to keep showing up at 6 a.m. with coffee and revised build plans.
We weren’t even supposed to end up with our own estate. The plan was to find a place to rent for our wedding. Somewhere pretty, maybe a little showy, something worthy of the “fucking show” we were going to put on for our family. Gage’s words, not mine.
But then we pulled into this driveway.
I saw the manor, the way the trees leaned in like they were guarding it, the way the garden felt alive even in the off-season. And I fell. Not in a cute way. I crashed.
Gage watched me for maybe thirty seconds before turning to the realtor and saying, “We’ll take it.”
I thought he meant we’d rent it. I didn’t even know it was for sale. It wasn’t. But Gage didn’t care. Apparently, when a Black wants something, everything is for sale.
Gage made some calls. Bribed someone, probably. Or threatened. I didn’t ask. Two weeks later, we had keys. And then he got to work.
We talked about what we wanted. What we’d change. What we’d keep. The bones were already beautiful, but we wanted it to feel like ours. He let me dream out loud and then turned around and built the whole damn thing as if I’d given him his marching orders.
We named it Blackbriar.
Black for him.
Briar for me.
Gage suggested Briar because he thinks I’m like a wild briar rose. The kind that blooms even in the hard times. Resilient. Fierce. Still standing when everything else dies.
He brushed his lips over mine and said Briar was also for our love.
Wild and beautiful.
Strong enough to survive the storms.
Soft enough to keep blooming anyway.
A love that never pretends to be perfect.
As the circle drive curves us toward the front steps of the house, I glance out at the hedges that are slightly overgrown in a way that’s definitely noticeable if you’re a billionaire with a team of landscapers and control issues.
Gage wanted them trimmed for the wedding. I told him they were vibing.
He told me they were uneven and possibly a tripping hazard.
I told him if anyone tripped on a hedge, that’s Darwinism.
He dropped it.
Amelia: 263.
Gage: 5.
I’m pretty sure he put it on a secret list of things to “fix” next week. Which means I’m already planning my counterattack. Possibly involving emotional manipulation and telling him I want the feral version of him. No leash.
Gage pulls up in front of the house and brings the car to a smooth stop and I feel the exact moment his attention shifts.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just sits there.
And when I glance over, I catch that look in his eyes.
Not the one he gives me when we’re alone and I’m seconds away from being ruined.
The other one. The one that wrecks me without even trying.
The one that says you’re my peace and my purpose and I would burn down the world before I let anyone touch you.
His hand comes to my thigh. And when I drop my gaze to it, I don’t see a wedding ring on his finger. Even though it should be there. Even though I know it kills him for it not to be there.
We haven’t told anyone we’re already married.
I pushed for this. Not because I wanted to keep it a secret. But because I didn’t want our girls to feel like they missed it. Luna and Sarah deserve to feel like they’re a part of all of it.
Our friends and family would have been fine. But our girls need to know that bringing our worlds together doesn’t mean they’re getting less of either of us. Keeping our marriage secret has been Gage’s gift to them.
I slide my hand over his, and when I look up, he’s already watching me. A slow smile tugs at my mouth, and for a second, I wish we had all the time in the world to mark this moment, just the two of us.
The start of our wedding weekend.
The beginning of forever, again.
But we don’t have that kind of time. And our daughters give us approximately two seconds before reminding us of that fact.
“Can we go in?’ Luna bursts from the backseat, practically vibrating in her booster. “I need to see my bedroom! I hope you remembered all the things I told you, Dad.”
“I want to see mine too,” Sarah adds, already halfway out of her seatbelt. “I bet it looks like a princess room.”
I laugh at their excitement, loving it. Loving them being here with us.
But as they spill out of the car, I get caught in one last moment with my husband. Because when I look at him before following the girls, I’m slowed all the way down.
Gage is watching me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like the estate, the weekend, the girls’ happiness—that’s all good. But I’m it.
His mouth is soft at the corners. His eyes warm and impossibly steady. And for one breath, I let myself hold still too. Just to catch the weight of his love.
Then I open the door. “You girls have already seen your bedrooms.”
“Only once!” Luna says, scandalized. “And everything was dusty and weird. And there were ladders everywhere!”
“And Gage wouldn’t let us go in all the rooms,” Sarah says, tossing him a look as he rounds the car. “You said it was dangerous.”
“It was dangerous,” he says, joining us at the stairs. His voice is dry, but I don’t miss the way his mouth twitches, holding back his smile. “Your mother proved that when she stood on a paint can to inspect something on the wall.”
“It was fine,” I say.
His brows arch as our eyes meet. “You fell into a box of light fixtures.”
I refrain from giving him an eye roll. The man lives for them. He also lives for his overprotective ways being proven right. “Did I break any bones? I think not. All was good.”
Gage gives me the look that’s one part exasperation, two parts heat, and one devastating hit of love.
The look that says he’d argue with me forever just to watch me hold my ground.
That he’d kiss me senseless just to shut me up.
And that he’d absolutely love to pin me to the nearest flat surface and make damn sure I never stand on anything unstable again.
Instead, he reaches for his keys. The girls bounce in place as he unlocks the front door. When he pushes it open, they barrel past us in a blur of boots and laughter, voices echoing up the staircase.
“I’m going to my room first!”
“Me too!”
“We need to see the playroom!”
“Yes! And the puzzles Mom said they got us!”
Their footsteps disappear up the stairs like the opening notes of a song I didn’t know I’d been waiting to hear.
Gage steps back, holding the door open for me, and then we’re walking inside.
The foyer is wide and welcoming, its original stone floors worn smooth by time and footsteps.
A thick old rug sprawls across the entryway, deep rust and blackberry and faded rose woven into the kind of pattern that whispers of decades.
We asked the previous owners if we could keep it because we loved it so much. Loved the history it carried.
Above us, the ceiling stretches high, beams exposed—weathered wood stained dark, almost black in some places—while soft autumn light spills through a tall arched window above the door.
Plants take up half the space here, some intentional, some maybe a little bit out of hand. There are leafy ones, tall ones, trailing vines that brush the floor. They’re tucked along the wall, clustered in corners, crowding the sunlight. Part of the family now.
Gage says it’s getting excessive.
I told him last week that it’s not hoarding if they all have names.
He just gave me a look, muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and carried in another one anyway.
Directly ahead, the grand staircase curves up and to the right. Wooden and solid, the banister still has little nicked places we never fixed on purpose.
To the left is the sitting room. Gage had it opened up early in the renovations. He told the contractor, “I want her to walk in and feel like the house is breathing. No doors. No stiff angles. She hates formal.” And now, it does. The whole room feels like an exhale.
The walls are rough stone, the color of sun-washed beige, and the furniture is all deep cream and warm rust—low armchairs and a sprawling couch made from soft fabric that practically begs you to stay too long.
We haven’t broken it in yet. Haven’t sat there together, haven’t curled up under a blanket and talked until we forget what time it is. But I know we will. It’s that kind of couch. The kind that’s going to hold conversations we didn’t even know we needed.
A fireplace is set into the far wall, carved stone etched with time, stacked with logs, and ready to glow. An antique wood sideboard sits nearby, home to our mismatched mugs, whiskey bottles and puzzles.
There are books stashed everywhere. In the shelves along the wall and stacked beside armchairs, ready to read. Most of them are recent arrivals. I brought some up from the city and picked others up locally while we were renovating and dreaming of reading here.
Gage didn’t pay much attention to my books until he realized half of what I read involves emotionally repressed men doing obscene things on furniture. Now he asks a lot of questions. Sometimes with his hands.
This room says: Welcome. We love you. Please stay awhile. Take off your shoes and tell me your day. You matter here.
The air smells of cedar and us, held like a memory. Books. Woodsmoke. Gage’s cologne.
My boots are soft on the rug before I stop and take it all in. And for once, I don’t rush through it. Don’t move fast because there’s somewhere else to be. Something else to do.
This is the first time we’ve been here like this. Not mid-construction. Not with a to-do list in one hand and a measuring tape in the other.
This time, it’s just us.
All of us.
In our home.
“It feels different with the girls here,” I murmur, looking at the stairs where they just were.
Gage doesn’t say anything. He simply slides his hand into mine and waits for me to feel all my feelings.
And holy god, I’m feeling them.
We’re not just standing in a house.
We’re standing in the life we’re building.