I watched Lex carry that weight quietly. Never complain. Never regret choosing me—but I knew it hurt.
Then, a few weeks ago, everything changed.
His dad showed up.
Just… showed up.
Lex froze when he saw him standing there, hands shoved into his coat pockets, eyes softer than I’d ever seen them. They talked for hours. I stayed in the other room, heart in my throat, listening to muffled voices and pauses that felt like they might break something open—or apart.
When Lex finally came back to me, his eyes were red.
“He apologized,” Lex whispered, like he was afraid the words might disappear.
“He said he was proud of me. Of my career. Of my life. Of…us.”
Later, his dad hugged me. Told me he was grateful Lex had someone waiting for him at home. Someone who loved him the way he deserved.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt relief like that.
Now, I watch Lex come home after training, tired and glowing andhappy. He kisses me like he’s still amazed I’m here. Like I’m real. Like choosing me was never a question.
And sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and his arm is heavyaround my waist, I think about that version of us who were scared and secret and hurting.
I want to tell them they make it.
That love wins.
That Lex gets everything he ever dreamed of—and more.
That we both do.
And I smile into the dark, knowing this is only the beginning.
EPILOGUE TWO
LEX
6 months later
Life turned out better than I ever let myself imagine.
Sometimes I still catch myself thinking that if I blink too long, it’ll disappear—that I’ll wake up back in that version of myself who was angry, lonely, hiding behind masks.
But then I hear him humming somewhere in the apartment, or I feel his hand slide into mine without thinking, and I remember this is real.
My boyfriend—
No. Excuse me.
My husband.
Jamie is my husband.
We’ve been married for eight months, and I still love saying it. I still love how it feels in my mouth, like something holy and dangerous and earned.
He’s a world-famous painter now. Museums fight over his work. Collectors throw obscene amounts of money at him. I’ve watched his art travel farther than we ever did as kids, watched his name become something whispered with awe.
And my career? Solid. Thriving. Everything my father once dreamed for me—just not the way he imagined it.
