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Love.

Epilogue

BECKETT

Six months later,the Metropolitan Museum of Art hums with anticipation. The exhibition—"DUALITY: The Works of Luna Laurent"—opens to the public tomorrow, but tonight belongs to the private viewing. Critics, collectors, museum patrons, and celebrities move through the space in elegant formal wear, champagne flutes in hand as they admire the thirty canvases that have established Luna Laurent as one of the most compelling emerging artists of her generation.

I stand in the doorway of the main gallery, watching her.

Luna moves through the crowd with effortless grace, dressed in a gown of midnight blue that catches the light with each movement. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and around her throat—not a collar, not a claim, but a delicate gold necklace she chose for herself. She laughs at something a curator says, her entire face lighting up with the kind of joy that still catches me off guard when I witness it.

Six months. Half a year since I removed the collar, since we chose each other. No labels, just her and I.

In that time, everything has changed—and somehow, nothing has.

We still live in the penthouse, though Luna maintains the SoHo apartment as her primary studio space. We still share a bed, still wake wrapped around each other, still can't keep our hands off each other even after all this time. But the dynamic between us has evolved into something I never could have imagined when I first saw her across that ballroom floor.

Partnership. Equality. Choice renewed each day.

"She's magnificent," Sebastian says, appearing beside me with two glasses of champagne. He hands me one, following my gaze to where Luna stands.

"Yes," I agree simply. "She is."

"And happy," he observes, studying me with that perceptive gaze that misses nothing. "You both are."

I take a sip of champagne rather than responding directly. Sebastian doesn't need confirmation of what he can clearly see. The transformative months since the gallery reopening have changed us both—Luna into the confident artist commanding the room, me into someone capable of standing beside her rather than above her.

"The reviews are already coming in," Sebastian continues. "The Times is calling her 'the most important new voice in contemporary art.' The Journal says her work 'redefines trauma narratives through a lens of earned resilience.'"

"She deserves it," I say, pride warming my chest as I watch her explain one of her larger canvases to a group of admirers.

Sebastian's expression turns thoughtful. "You know, when you first claimed her, I thought it was just another acquisition. Something to possess and control, like everything else."

"It was," I admit. "At first."

"And now?"

I consider the question carefully, wanting to give him a true answer. "Now I know that the most valuable things in life can't be acquired. They can only be honored. Cherished. Chosen."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "That's remarkably philosophical coming from you."

"She's been a good influence," I reply with a small smile.

"Clearly." He glances at his watch, then back at me. "You should go. It's almost time."

I nod, draining my champagne and handing him the empty glass. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need it," he assures me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "But good luck anyway."

I move through the crowded gallery toward Luna, who has just finished her conversation with the museum director. Her eyes find mine across the room, lighting up with the kind of recognition that still makes my heart skip a beat after all this time.

"There you are," she says as I reach her. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me to the wolves."

"Never," I promise, allowing myself to brush a strand of hair from her face. A small gesture of affection, freely given and received. "But I do need to borrow you for a moment."

She glances around at the bustling exhibition. "Now? We're in the middle of?—"

"Five minutes," I assure her. "That's all I need."