As the last Carrington, I will do the same. I’ll burn down the world if I have to. Fire, ash, and silence—that's the legacy. And it’s mine to keep.
Elaine: 1 year later
The office feels a thousand miles away by the time I reach the front door. The weight of the day slides off my shoulders the moment I step inside and catch the faint hum of music drifting from the backyard. I don’t need to follow it to know where she is.
Stella’s art studio is lit by a spill of warm lamplight, the sharp scent of paint already curling into my lungs. She stands at the canvas in her favorite paint-splattered overalls, hanging loose over her hips, nothing beneath but a black lace bra. Strands of hair fall against her cheek, streaked with flecks of blue, her bare feet stained with the colors she’s tracked across the drop cloth.
She doesn’t notice me at first, lost in her rhythm—brush dragging across canvas with deliberate strokes. A castle rises on the surface, perched on a jagged cliffside, its spires sharp against a bruised sky. Below it, the sea churns, black and dangerous, waves crashing up toward the stone as if trying to devour it. She paints like she breathes—every motion full of control and chaos, power and surrender, a storm balanced on the tip of her brush.
My chest aches just watching her. Over a year, and still she takes my breath away; still I want to drop to my knees just to worship the way she moves, the way she is. This woman, who once burned with rage, who tore down everything in her path, is mine. She chose me. And I will never stop choosing her.
I cross the room and wrap my arms around her waist, pressing close until my chest molds against her back. She hums in recognition but doesn’t stop painting, her free hand sliding to rest on my arm. I kiss her neck, slow and lingering, tasting the salt of her skin.
Finally, she sets the brush down and turns in my arms, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us. Her lips find mine—insistent, soft, then hungrier, the kind of kiss that still makes my knees weak no matter how many times she’s given it to me. I laugh against her mouth, and she drinks it in like she’s starving.
Her paint-streaked fingers catch my jaw, leaving smudges across my skin as she pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes, that stormy fire, burn hotter than the canvas behind her.
“Elaine,” she says, voice raw, trembling with something bigger than either of us. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love you. You’re in every thought I have, every choice I make. You’re my ruin and my salvation, all at once. You are everything.”
Before I can speak, she sinks to her knees, her hands gathering the hem of my skirt. My breath catches, the world tilting, and then she lifts one of my legs over her shoulder, her mouth claiming me with a hunger that knocks every sound from my throat. I grip her hair, trembling against her tongue, undone by the way she devours me like worship, like promise, like she’s etching her name into my bones.
When I finally collapse against her, shaking, she rises, catching my face in her hands. Her eyes are wild, wet, and fierce.She presses her forehead to mine, and I feel her breath when she whispers, her voice steady now, anchored by fire.
“Marry me.”
She pulls the ring from her pocket, her hands tremble as she slides the ring onto me, but my voice doesn’t shake when I answer.
“They’ll write love like ours as a warning,” I whisper against her lips. “But I’ll never regret it. I’d choose your ruin, your chaos, your fire, every single time.”
And when she kisses me again, I know the truth: warnings mean nothing. This is not a love to fear. This is a love to survive for.
Stella 1 Year Later
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 fewinches 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 areembroidered 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.
