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And still, his voice whispered at her ear, rough and ragged, possessive as hell:

“You’re never getting away from me.”

Epilogue

Krystal sat in the dressing room, the layers of her wedding gown spilling around her like spun silk and starlight. The ivory fabric shimmered under the warm vanity lights, delicate lace trailing over her arms and pooling like soft clouds at her feet. Her bare shoulders glowed against the satin, her hands nervously fidgeting with the lipstick she'd just dropped.

She leaned forward, reaching carefully—only to freeze when the door burst open with far too much force.

Lorenzo stormed in like a gust of wind wrapped in Armani. “I told you to stop working!” he growled, his voice sharp with concern.

He was beside her in two strides, crouching immediately. His black dress shoes squeaked faintly on the polished floor as he picked up the lipstick before her fingers could reach it. His brows were furrowed, jaw tight, like she’d tried to do something far more dangerous than lean over.

He held the lipstick out to her. “Here. No more bending. No more dropping things. I mean it.”

Krystal blinked at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “I was just picking up lipstick, Lorenzo. I’m not lifting a car.”

“I don’t care,” he said, completely unamused. “You’re pregnant. That means no bending, no lifting, and absolutely zero stunts involving runaway lipsticks. Understood?”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh. “You act like I’m made of glass.”

“My wifeismade of glass. Porcelain. Fragile, precious, and glowing. And full of my child,” he said, standing and brushing his hands off like he’d just saved a life.

Her heart softened as she looked at him—Lorenzo, dressed in a three-piece suit that made him look like every girl's fantasy groom, but with eyes only for her.

“We’re not even married yet,” she teased, smirking. “Technically, I’m still just your girlfriend.”

He leaned down, brushing a kiss to her cheek, lingering a second longer than he needed to. His lips moved close to her ear, his voice a murmur wrapped in affection. “Girlfriend. Fiancée. Wife. Mother of my child. All the same. You’re mine, and I’m yours."

She blushed. Then, narrowing her eyes playfully, she added, “Also… you’re not supposed to see me before the wedding. You’re breaking all the rules.”

He didn’t budge. Instead, he dropped down into the chair beside her like he had all the time in the world. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, reaching out to stroke her arm gently. “I’ve had enough of being away from you last year. After we divorced, I swore to never let us live separately again. From now on, you’re going to live in my office if needed. We go home together. Always."

She gave him a flat look. “That’s not romantic. That’s insane.”

“I don’t care,” he said unapologetically. “I’ll build two desks and call it a couple’s package.”

She snorted a laugh with a disgusted face.

He reached out, gently cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking lightly just below her eye. “Don’t make that face,” he murmured, mock-scolding. Then he bent in and kissed her. A slow, lingering kiss that melted her bones and stirred butterflies that hadn’t rested in years.

“Next time you need something picked up,” he whispered against her lips, “you call me. I’ll crawl if I have to.”

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the suit. Safe. Warm. Home.

Then, after a moment, his voice lowered.

“Baby... I got some news today.”

She lifted her head slightly, her brows drawing together. “What happened?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Esther died in jail.”

Krystal’s expression didn’t change. She blinked slowly. “Oh.”

“And Jim apparently went mad after hearing about it. They’ve sent him to an asylum.”

She went still for a beat. Her fingers—resting lightly on his wrist—tightened just slightly, then relaxed again. “Do you want to see her?” she asked softly.