He kisses me again, soft and sweet, and I taste salt, whether from his tears or my tears it’s hard to tell.
“Come on,” he says eventually, helping me up. “Let’s get cleaned up and into actual pajamas before you fall asleep on me.”
“I’m not that tired,” I protest, even as a yawn escapes.
“Liar.” But he’s smiling as he helps me to the bathroom, as he runs a warm washcloth over my sensitive skin, as he dresses me in one of his old t-shirts, the front barely skimming my thighs from how it drapes around my belly.
We climb into bed properly this time, and I curl against his side with my head on his chest. Our baby kicks lazily, as if to remind us they’re still here.
“Luca?” I murmur, already half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad you chose me too. Even if the beginning was all wrong, I’m glad it led us here.”
His arms tighten around me. “Me too,cara. Me too.”
I drift off to sleep in the arms of the man I once feared, now love beyond measure. Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast together, laugh about the wedding, and continue building the life we’ve chosen.
But tonight, I’m just Gigi, lying next to Luca, feeling our baby move between us.
From hatred to love. From captivity to choice. From revenge to redemption.
The journey brought us here, to this moment of perfect peace.
And I wouldn’t change a single step of it.
EPILOGUE: LUCA
TWO YEARS LATER
There are contracts on my desk that need reviewing, calls to return, a meeting with Viktor in twenty minutes about expanding our legitimate holdings into real estate development. Important things. Things that actually matter to the empire I’ve built.
But I can’t stop watching the garden.
Gigi is out there, eight months pregnant and glowing in the late afternoon sun. She’s wearing one of my old button-downs over leggings (the only thing that fits her now, according to her), her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Our son Marco is running circles around her, his little legs pumping as he chases butterflies through the wildflower garden she planted last spring.
He’s two years old and fearless and so much like his mother it terrifies me sometimes.
“Mommy! Mommy, look!” Marco’s voice carries through the open window, high and excited. “I catch it!”
He’s cupping something carefully in his small hands, his face scrunched with concentration as he runs to Gigi. She bends down, sort of, and peers at whatever he’s captured.
“Oh no,” I hear her say gently. “Sweet boy, I think this butterfly’s wing is hurt. Can you bring it inside so Mama can take a look?”
Marco’s eyes go wide. “You fix it?”
“I’ll try.” Gigi stands slowly, one hand on the small of her back, and takes Marco’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go to the clinic.”
They head toward the small veterinary practice Gigi runs from a converted wing of the estate. It started as a way for her to keep working while staying close to Marco, but over the past two years, it’s become something more. Word spread about the vet who would treat any animal, regardless of the owner’s ability to pay. Now she’s legendary among the city’s rescue organizations, a force of healing in a world that has too much hurt.
I watch them disappear into the clinic, Marco chattering excitedly about how the butterfly will be all better soon because “Mama can fix anything.”
The faith in his voice—that absolute certainty that his mother is capable of miracles—makes me smile.
He’s right, of course. Gigi can fix anything. She fixed me.
