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Because tonight isn’t about our news.

It’s about his.

As the music swells and the security detail parts to make room, I see them—El Tigre and Maya—stepping into the space like the stars they are.

But it’s not the fame that makes me grin.

It’s what we did together.

Me. Balor. Rico. Maya.

And now, the world gets to see it.

Showtime.

Epilogue Two-Balor

I grin at my wife as she perches on my lap, her soft curves settling against me like they were made to fit.

My arm wraps around her waist, protective, possessive.

Even more so now that I know she’s growing our baby in the miracle that is her body.

I nod once to one of my guys across the yard. He taps the tablet and the massive outdoor screen flickers to life.

El Tigre already gave his speech—thanking me for the assist, thanking Lucy for the inspiration, thanking fate or whatever else brought him through the fire of fame to something that sounds like truth.

I waved it all off, as usual, but I’ll admit he’s a better man than I assumed. And, he earned this.

Him and his wife, who as it turns out, is his lyricist.

Now it’s time to show the world what we made.

Ella es de él.

Translation: She is his.

El Tigre’s new hit single

The first note hits like a spell—soft and seductive.

A single haunting guitar string that slides into a low, slow beat. It hums with longing, with reverence.

Then the melody blooms, all warm bass and whispered percussion, rising and falling like a heartbeat synced to emotion.

The kind of song that sinks into your skin and stays there.

I tense when I see the legs on screen—her legs.

Strong, shapely, and fuck-me familiar.

She walks slowly through a smoky, crowded room, high heels clicking over marble tile, the camera climbing her form like hands wanting to touch.

Beside me, Marat stiffens. Destiny’s eyes narrow just slightly.

I glance at Javier DeSoto, the photographer turned director is sitting beside them.

He’s sweating bullets, but he nods respectfully. He knows what he’s done.