He’d known. Before she’d even tried.
He hadn’t made her ask.
The sob ripped through her. From her chest, from her stomach, from the part of her that still loved him like breathing. She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she could trap the sound.
He understood her, even now.
She shattered for him. For them.
And everything they could’ve been.
Epilogue
RAFAEL
Rafael stood in the center of the room, pulse settling, fists still coiled from the last strike.
The bag swung like it wanted another round. So did he.
Outside, the city blurred behind tinted glass—steel, dusk, a world still spinning—but inside this room, time had narrowed.
He’d been preparing for the blow. An engagement. A wedding date. The final chapter written in someone else’s hand.
Instead, Gage King had gotten on a plane to London. And she hadn’t gone with him.
The outcome of a long-placed bet finally paying out.
Footsteps sounded behind him, unhurried and deliberate.
“Looks like you were right about London,” Laurent said from the doorway, his tone more observational than smug.
Rafael turned, reached for the water bottle on the nearby bench, cracked the cap, and took a long drink.
Laurent stepped inside, looking around with quiet approval at the recently refurbished space.
One half was for command: his desk, twin monitors, leather lounges, the hum of industry. The other, for combat: heavy bags hung from steel beams. Kick shields, pads, gloves. The mirror gleamed, for now.
Laurent admired the equipment, then his gaze settled back on Rafael. “No ring. No press release,” he mused. “She’s not going.”
Rafael’s grip crushed the water bottle.
He hadn’t allowed hope. But when Gage boarded that plane alone, something in him locked into place.
“What now, Griffin?”
Rafael wiped his hands on the towel before tossing it aside. “She stayed. That’s all I needed.”
The air shifted.
“The next move is mine.”
Epilogue II
LAURENT
The dark-paneled walls were painted in shifting shadows. Midnight & Gold held its usual weight: too much old money, too much history, and not a single wasted word.
Dean leaned back in his armchair, one ankle resting over a knee, eyes on the fire. “Word is, Bea’s flying back soon.”
