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So, here’s to the softest launch that ended with the loudest statement. Harper’s story is encouragement to the other women out there who don’t owe anyone their survival story. And now she has the kind of love that doesn’t ask for applause—just permanence.
Harper Alexander, soon-to-be Calloway, didn’t just walk away from the fire. She is the fire. Maybe I’ll get an exclusive invite to the wedding.
Stay tuned, LuxBabies. I have a feeling this love story’s just getting started.
xo,
LadyLux
I read it. Every damn word, every deliciously dramatic, perfectly penned word.
Harper Alexander, soon-to-be Calloway, didn’t just walk away from the fire. She is the fire.
My mouth falls open, and my cheeks are somewhere between flushed and stunned.
“She’s not wrong,” Brody says, still holding me.
“She makes it sound like I conquered a country.”
He leans in, kisses the edge of my jaw. “You did.”
I scroll back to the top, skimming again, shaking my head. “Did she really sayburned quietly?”
“Iconic,” he tells me. “I might get it tattooed.”
Laughter falls out of my chest and makes me feel lighter. Like someone else saw the worst version of me and still managed to write an ending where I won. Maybe that’s proof that this is reality.
We won.
Brody doesn’t look away. “She protected you. That’s all I care about.”
I lean into him, my head on his shoulder, our fingers laced on his chest.
“Do you think people will believe that I’m okay now?” I ask.
He kisses my temple. “They don’t have to believe it. Show them. The truth always sets you free.”
For once, I don’t feel like I’m surviving the narrative someone else wrote for me.
I finally feel like I’m the one holding the pen.
40
BRODY
The pasta’s a little overdone, and the sauce is too thick, but Harper hasn’t said a word about it. She just keeps smiling like I served her something five-star, twirling the noodles around her fork and leaning back in her chair like this is the best meal she’s ever eaten.
We’re sitting by candlelight—not because we planned it, but because she turned the dimmer too low and then decided it felt “romantic as hell” and refused to fix it. There’s music playing softly from her phone, something slow and old-school, and every now and then, she hums along between bites.
This is our life.
She reaches for my plate and steals a bite of garlic bread.
I raise an eyebrow. “You have your own, you know.”
“Yours is crispier,” she says with a shrug as we finish eating. “Mine is just a little too soft.”
“Forgot you like themhard,” I say, and it’s not lost on her.