He doesn’t smile. “That’s because it is.”
There’s a pause, and then he slips the sketchbook back into my hands. “Get dressed. I want to show you something.”
I blink. “Right now?”
He nods. “Right now.”
Traffic is thick—horns, movement, the pulse of the city—but Lukin’s hand doesn’t leave mine once as we pull into a gated compound uptown. It’s the kind of place I’ve only ever passed by before: sleek, towering, exclusive. A whole building with floor-to-ceiling glass and soft-lit signage. Expensive. Alive.
He helps me out of the car and leads me toward the entrance.
“Lukin,” I whisper, already overwhelmed. “Where are we?”
He says nothing. Just pulls open the glass doors.
And I freeze.
A studio. Not a room. Not a floor. The whole building. My name is etched in cursive on the glass wall near the entrance: ZOE.
Inside—everything. Industrial worktables. Mannequins. Fabric shelves that stretch to the ceiling. Mood boards already pinned up. Lighting rigs. Fitting rooms. A private office with huge windows that overlook the skyline. A showroom with plush seating and mirrors.
My heart stops. “Lukin….”
He turns to face me, his voice soft but sure. “You’re ready. You’ve always been ready. And now, you have everything you need.”
Tears blur my vision. “This is… it’s too much.”
“No.” He steps closer. “It’s exactly what you deserve. Nothing is too much for you. I love you, and I believe in you.”
I can’t speak. I just crash into him, arms tight around his waist.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like someone’s wife. Or someone’s mother.
I feel like me.
And I feel unstoppable.
Epilogue - Lukin
It’s been six months.
Six months of bliss. Of happiness. Of pure joy.
Today is Zoe’s birthday. She is twenty-two years old, and it’s almost a year since we’ve been together. I never thought any human could make me as happy as I am now, but look at me.
The dining hall glows beneath soft golden lights. Laughter drifts through the room, a warm hum that wraps around the long table. People are gathered—trusted faces, loyal friends, family born of blood and choice. But I only see her.
Zoe.
She’s at the head of the table, our son in her lap, and she’s glowing. Not just from the candles flickering on the massive birthday cake in front of her, but from something deeper. Peace. Joy. Freedom. She’s truly smiling. Not the cautious kind she used to wear when we first met—but the unrestrained kind. The kind that says she’s not just surviving anymore—she’s living.
She leans in, whispering something to Sam, and he giggles, grabbing at her necklace with his tiny fists. She laughs. Everyone else laughs with her. And I just sit there, across the table, with my whiskey untouched, watching them like a man who’s still in disbelief that this is real.
That she’s mine.
That they both are.
I don’t know when it happened—when she became the center of my universe. Maybe it was when she first looked at me without fear. Maybe it was the first time she curled into my chest like it was home. Or maybe it was now, watching her tuck a curlbehind her ear, holding our son like the world has finally started making sense.
