“I’ve also learned that justice delayed isn’t always justice denied. Sometimes it’s justice done right. When you can support all the survivors, not just one, and build systems that protect the vulnerable instead of the powerful, then you know you’re making a difference.”
Standing ovation.
Afterward, Nico finds me on the viewing deck. The sky is finally dark enough, and the first ribbons of green are starting to dance across the horizon.
“Northern lights,” I breathe. “Nico, look.”
He’s not looking at the sky. He’s looking at me.
“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly. “Accidentally meeting me?”
I consider the question honestly. The private lounge at the Tribeca gala I accidentally walked into. The one-night stand that should have stayed anonymous. The mortifying Monday morning. Being invisible while indispensable. The gossip and the scandals and the moments I thought we’d never survive.
But also: the pad thai at midnight. The sticky note wars. The bandaged hand. Late nights when walls came down. His family embracing me like I’d always been there. His growth from bosshole to partner.
I kiss his scarred cheek, that landscape I’ve memorized with my lips and fingertips. “Best mistake I ever made.”
He pulls me close and growls, “Now that’s what I wanted to hear.”
We watch the aurora together, the green and purple light rippling across the Icelandic sky. His armstays around my shoulders. My head stays against his chest.
We’re two people who found each other by accident and somehow built something real.
Later, in the backseat of the secure car back to our hotel, I rest my head on his shoulder. His thumb strokes my wrist, brushing over my wedding ring.
“I love you,” I whisper into the darkness.
“Love you, too.” His lips press against my temple. “My brilliant, difficult, perfect pain in the ass.”
I smile against his shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”
Best mistake I ever made.
Epilogue #2
Bree
One Week Later...
Sunday mornings used to mean Mac n’ Cheese eaten over my smart phone while doom-scrolling job boards in my Astoria apartment.
Now they mean Egyptian cotton sheets, a view of the Hudson, and a six-foot-one billionaire who apparently thinks newspapers are still a thing.
Look at you, Bree.
Living your best life.
I’m propped against roughly seventeen pillows, because Nico doesn’t do anything by halves, including pillow counts.
He’s beside me, shirtless, reading the physical Wall Street Journal like some kind of gorgeous financial dinosaur.
He turns a page with that particular crispness only Nico can manage. Like even newspaper reading is a power move.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he comments.
I glance at the mug on my nightstand. My side of the bed now.Mynightstand.Mymug.
Three months married and I’m still not fully used to theoursof it all.
