“Hello,” I tell my daughter again. “Welcome little one. You picked a messy kingdom to be born into, but it’s yours, nevertheless.”
Cassandra watches me with that look she has when she’s both disarming me and loading the weapon. “We did it,” she says.
“We did.”
There are a thousand things waiting outside this room—calls, decisions, a new set of enemies. There will be long nights and diapers and school forms and exhaustion. There will be laughter, anger, and love that keeps burning after the fuel runs out. I have been king of many rooms. None of them mattered like this one.
I sit at the edge of Cassandra’s bed with our daughter in my arms and our future on her finger, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m standing guard at the door of my own life. I feel like I’ve walked through it.
“Hi,” I tell my wife-to-be. “I love you.”
She smiles through the tears. “Hi,” she says back. “I love you too.”
Outside the window, the autumn sun hangs on over the wild reds and golds of Central Park.
Lighting the future that is ours to claim.
EPILOGUE II
CASSANDRA
Three years later…
The bell over the door hangs from a little red ribbon. Fitting.
It chimes when the first guests step in from Elizabeth Street and doesn’t stop—a heartbeat of metal as the room fills.
I’m standing under my own sign, Red Ribbon Atelier, the Nolita sunshine sliding across the floorboards we sanded by hand. I feel like I was always meant to be here, measuring hems, not escaping danger.
We did it right. The mannequins have bellies, hips, and thighs that look like mine, as well as those of my prospective customers. The mirrors are kind. The chairs are wide and lovely. There’s tailoring chalk on the counter and silk swatches like paint chips fanned out beside the register.
In the corner, a small altar to the red thread: spools, a velvet bow, a framed card that saysYou were never a “before.”On a tray by the tea service, mochi sits next to shortbread and tiny mince pies.
“Mommy!” Sasha barrels across the rug in silver sneakers that flash when she runs. Her hair’s in a tiny bob. I swore I wouldn’t cut it, but I did because she wanted it.
She skids to a stop and throws her arms up. I lift her, all twenty-nine determined pounds, and kiss her face. Damien watches from two steps back, pretending not to smile and failing gloriously.
He’s in a dark suit with a band tee under the jacket, because marriage means compromise, and I’ve infected him with my ways. He holds out his hand for the satin ribbon I’ve been worrying between my fingers, and threads it through mine like a promise we keep remaking.
“Proud of you,” he says quietly for me alone. “I’ll show you just how proud later tonight.”
“Behave,” I whisper back. He’s looking at me like we should lock the door and scandalize the mannequins.
Alex and Clara arrive to applause they pretend not to hear. Clara is in one of our suits—a high-waisted trouser and a draped jacket in moss green that makes her look all kinds of glamorous.
Alex is easy now in a way I never thought I’d see, his edges sanded, his gaze still constantly scanning but soft when it lands on her. He has his hand on the small of her back, not because she needs help, but because that’s where his hand lives.
“You created heaven,” Clara says, sweeping an arm at the room, “for women with hips.”
“An empire,” Damien adds. I laugh because I married a man who even turns compliments into battle strategy.
People are everywhere. Orlov is at the door being affable security; our patternmaker, Jia, is showing a client our newest collection; Damien’s accountant, Mina, is there too, perusing the clothing carefully. Music threads through the surround sound. Someone laughs, high and bright, and for a second, I think I’m going to cry. I don’t, though, because I’m busy living the life I used to daydream about.
Damien takes Sasha’s small hands, guiding her, and together we cut the opening ribbon with ridiculous golden scissors that weigh more than my forearm. Flashbulbs. Applause.
Afterward, I drift. I pin a hem. I hug three clients who say they haven’t stepped into a dressing room without panic in a decade. I watch Clara charm a journalist. I catch Damien in the mirror, looking at me. He has the same expression he wore in the hospital three years and a lifetime ago—stunned and certain.
“Speech,” Clara calls, clapping her hands. “Or we riot.”
