Page 125 of Vicious Heir

I feel tears prick at my eyes again. I’d been so afraid we wouldn’t make it to this. That Ronan wouldn’t ever come around fully. But I can feel, in this moment, that things are finally okay. That whatever he’s needed to work through to forgive us, he’s there now.

"Thank you," I say quietly, just to him.

"She's my family,” Ronan says softly. “So are you. And he is, too.”

His eyes shift to where Elio is standing with Tristan, talking in low voices. There's still tension there—there probably always will be—but it's different now. Manageable. And finally on its way to being mostly behind us, I hope.

"How are you really doing?" Leila asks me quietly while Ronan is distracted with the baby. "I know everyone keeps asking, but you can always talk to me."

"Tired," I admit. "Overwhelmed. Terrified that I'm going to mess this up somehow. But also..." I look at Margaret, at my daughter, and feel that familiar surge of love so powerful it almost hurts. "Also, happier than I've ever been. Is that crazy?"

"Not even a little bit," Leila says, squeezing my hand. "That's just being a mom. I’m right there with you.”

The afternoon passes in a blur of conversation and laughter and a close, warm feeling that’s been missing ever since I came home. Simone shares horror stories from Tristan's attempts at changing diapers. Leila and Ronan chatter about their baby, and soon enough, all three men—Ronan, Tristan, and Elio, are trading stories from when we were all children. Through it all, Margaret is passed from person to person, cooed over, and adored, and welcomed into the family with open arms.

Eventually, everyone starts to leave. Simone and Tristan first, because they need to catch a flight. Ronan and Leila are next, and Ronan hands Margaret back to me carefully, like she's made of glass. "Thank you for letting us come today,” he says after a long moment. “For letting us be part of this."

"You're always going to be part of this," I tell him. "You're my brother. Nothing will ever change that."

He nods, and I see his throat work as he swallows hard. "I'm sorry. For how I reacted. For the things I said."

"Ronan—"

"No, let me finish." He takes a deep breath. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. I was so focused on protecting you that I didn't see what you really needed. And I'm sorry for that."

"You were scared," I say softly. "After what happened with Siobhan, with Desmond—you had every right to be scared. And I was wrong to lie to you. I made so many wrong choices, Ronan. But this—" I look at Elio. “This one was right.”

Elio steps up beside me, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "We all made mistakes," he says quietly. "What matters is that we're here now. Together."

Ronan looks at him for a long moment, and something passes between them. Some kind of understanding, or forgiveness, or both. "Take care of them," Ronan says finally. "My sister and my niece. That's all I ask."

"With my life," Elio promises. "Always."

Ronan reaches out his hand. Elio takes it without hesitation, clasping it, and I see both of them relax slightly.

"We should do Sunday dinners," Leila suggests brightly, breaking the tension. "All of us. Once you're settled in and ready for visitors. We could switch off Sundays."

"I'd like that,” I say, the idea filling me with warmth. Our family feels as if it’s healing. As if there’s a future where there’s no more recrimination, only the kind of closeness that I grew up with. I want Margaret to have that—for all of our children to have it.

After Ronan and Leila leave, Elio and I are finally alone with our daughter. "That went well," Elio says, following me up the stairs as I carry Maggie to the nursery.

"Better than well," I agree. "Ronan really has forgiven us, hasn't he?"

"I think so," Elio says. "And I’ll work every day to make sure it stays that way.”

I carefully lay Margaret in her crib, watching as she settles down. Elio's arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. Together, we watch our daughter sleep.

"Do you remember," he murmurs, his lips against my hair, "that night you came to me? When Desmond was after you?"

"Of course," I whisper, looking up at him. We haven’t talked about this in months. "I was terrified."

"So was I," he admits. "Not of Desmond. Of what I felt for you. Of what it would mean if I helped you. I knew it would change everything. I knew it might destroy my relationship with Ronan, might cost me everything I'd built."

"But you did it anyway," I say softly.

"But I did it anyway," he agrees. "Because even then, I knew I couldn't let you go. I knew that you were worth anything. You were worth everything. You and Margaret—you're my whole world, Annie. My entire life."

I feel my eyes mist over with tears. "I love you," I whisper. "So much. Sometimes I can't believe this is real. That we're really here, that we have all this."

"Believe it," he says, echoing my words from earlier. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."

He kisses me then, a slow, soft, sweet kiss that’s full of all the promises we’ve made to each other since then. And I let myself believe it. Let myself believe in this impossible happy ending we've somehow found.

This impossible, perfect, beautiful forever.