Page 134 of Desperate Games

My hand tucked into his, Callie darting in front of us, already squealing about the Christmas tree.

The house is alive with the chaos of family.

The Volkov Clan in full force, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls, platters of food passed hand to hand.

Potluck dishes everywhere—piroshki, roasted meats, salads, and the traditional homemade sourdough baskets, warm and fragrant, piled high in the center of the long table.

There are more gifts than anyone could ever count stacked under two trees—the grand one in the living room, glittering and regal, and the smaller, sparkly one in the playroom that Callie decorated herself with every shiny thing she could get her hands on.

And at the heart of it all? My parents.

My mom cooing over Elena, my dad cradling Andrew with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. Callie dancing around their legs like the proudest big sister in the world.

Dad lifts his head and finds Remy across the room. For a long moment, something unspoken passes between them.

Then Dad nods once, slow and solid, and when his gaze shifts to me, he gives me a smile.

And I smile back.

Because he gets it now.

No more doubts. No more games.

Remy is everything I want.

Everything I need.

“Mom,” I call, heart swelling as I take in my family—my husband, my children, all of us together. “Let’s plan that belated reception party.”

Her face lights with joy, and she nods, eyes shining.

“Yes, sweetheart,” she says. “Let’s.”

And for the first time in forever, I believe in happily ever after.

Chapter Forty-Six-Remy

Sharing our belated wedding reception with my wife’s first official art showing should feel like juggling grenades—two massive, high-stakes events stacked into one day.

But honestly? It feels perfect.

Like fate itself couldn’t have scripted it better.

The lobby of the Stargazer Hotel gleams with glass, marble, and golden light, every inch of it screaming prestige.

And there’s Andy—my Andy—floating through the crowd like she owns the place.

Head-to-toe gold.

A gown that drapes and clings in all the right places, subtle low heels that let her glide from group to group without losing her balance.

Her hair’s swept back in soft waves, her hazel eyes alive with light, and everywhere she goes people turn to stare.

But she doesn’t see them.

Not really.

Her focus is on her work—the stark, emotional photographs hung across the lobby walls under her pseudonym, A. Ram.