And for the first time in her life, Norah Winslow wasn’t calculating the risk.
She was embracing the reward.
EPILOGUE
MARSHALL
SIX MONTHS LATER
The rooftopof the new Black Tower Miami office wasn’t finished yet—half the railings were temporary, and someone still needed to install the real lighting—but Marshall already loved it. The air carried the clean bite of ocean wind and the faint perfume of night-blooming jasmine from the streets below. The sky was clearer here than in Alexandria, wide and sharp-edged, stars scattered like God had tossed them by hand.
He stood at the ledge anyway, because this was where his thoughts always pulled him at the end of the day.
Six months. Six months since Geneva. Six months since Jackson vanished between one breath and the next.
The ache wasn’t a wound anymore—it had become a weight he carried with practiced steadiness. It was both a reminder and a promise. A constant prayer.
He braced his palms against the warm concrete, letting the night air fill his lungs. He wasn’t running from grief anymore. He wasn’t drowning in fear. But part of him was still missing, and he felt that absence every time he looked at the sky and the ocean spreading out in front of him.
Footsteps approached behind him—lighter this time, confident, familiar.
“You didn’t even pretend you were coming back downstairs,” Norah said, lips curving as she joined him at the ledge. “Is this where you escape to avoid writing tomorrow’s incident brief?”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Absolutely. You think I want to document the fact that Tank broke the coffee maker during a bet with Pierce? Again?”
“That’s fair.” Norah bumped her hip against his. “But next time, I’m bringing snacks. Rooftop paperwork party.”
He turned toward her then, taking in the sight that still felt like a miracle. Norah, hair pulled back by the breeze, Black Tower badge clipped to her belt, eyes bright even in the dim rooftop lights. Analyst by day. Anchor by night. The woman who had turned his life right side up.
“You like Miami?” he asked softly, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.
She smiled in that way that tugged directly at his chest. “I like Miami with you.”
Warmth spread through him, steady and certain. They were building something here—something new, something lasting. A new Black Tower office. A new beginning. A future neither of them had dared to imagine six months ago.
Her hand slipped into his. “You thinking about him?”
Always.
Marshall nodded. “Some days I feel closer to trusting God with all of it. And then there are days like today, when I look at the horizon and wonder if Jackson’s looking at the same one.”
Norah leaned her head against his shoulder. “Wherever he is, he’s not alone. You carry him every day.”
His throat tightened. “I just want him safe.”
“He will be.” She said it with quiet conviction. “And he’ll find his way back.”
They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in silence and the hum of Miami nightlife far below. Senator Morris’s voice drifted faintly from a billboard screen across the street—another campaign ad, another speech about national security failures and leadership. Sixteen months until presidential elections, and she was clawing her way onto every channel, every feed. Ross warned that the next year would be uglier than any of them liked.
But tonight, none of it mattered.
Tonight was about her. Them.
“Norah,” he said softly.
Her eyes softened at the sound of her name in that voice.
He took her hands, the entire world narrowing to just the two of them on an unfinished rooftop in a new city with a future wide open before them.
