Zarah
The lavender is in bloom again.
I can smell it before I even step outside—
sweet, sharp, almost dizzying.
It rolls in with the sea breeze, curling around the glass doors, seeping through every hallway like it knows what kind of day this is.
Our day.
One year ago, I walked into this house wearing a dress that cost more than my first apartment.
One year ago, I was told I was his.
One year ago, I bled for him, bent for him, broke for him.
And somewhere in the ache and obedience—
I bloomed.
Wren's with Cora for the afternoon.
The staff knows not to interrupt.
The house is quieter now.
Not colder—
Just more sacred.
Because every room holds a memory.
And every memory leads back to him.
I step into the garden barefoot.
My robe is silk.
Dark plum.
His favorite color on me.
I don't speak.
I don't call for him.
I just walk—
through the stone path, under the arched trellis, around the heavy blooms of wisteria—
Until I see him.
Dominic.
On the bench.
Facing the sea.
White dress shirt rolled to his elbows.
No tie.
Barefoot, like me.
He hears me before he sees me.
Of course he does.
"You wore the robe," he says without turning.
"And nothing underneath."
"You told me to."
"Did I need to?"
"No, sir."
He rises slowly.
Moves to me like gravity only exists between us.
One hand wraps around my throat.
The other slips beneath the silk.
He doesn't even need to lift the hem
I'm already wet.
"You're dripping for me," he murmurs.
"I never stopped."
His mouth brushes my jaw.
His fingers drag down my spine.
And when he pulls away
I drop.
To my knees.
In the garden.
Among the flowers.
Where he first made me say yes with my whole soul.
"Look at me," he says.
I do.
He reaches into his pocket.
Takes out a ring.
Not mine.
Wren's.
Tiny. Gold.
Too small even for her finger yet.
"She'll wear it when she turns eighteen."
"She'll know who she is."
"What is she?" I ask softly.
"She's our legacy."
"And me?"
He cups my face.
Eyes gone soft and wicked all at once.
"You're my reason."
"You're my kingdom."
"You're every goddamn rule I ever broke."
I lean forward.
Kiss the ring.
Then his hand.
Then the inside of his wrist.
And whisper the truth that's never stopped being true:
"I'll still kneel for you."
Dominic
The house is quieter now.
Not empty.
Just full.
Every room holds her scent.
Every wall carries her voice.
Every shadow is lit by something I never planned for.
And from where I sit—
behind the old mahogany desk, beside a window I once ordered boarded up—
I can see them.
Zarah is barefoot in the grass.
Dress loose. Hair wild.
Wren's tiny hand curled in hers as she toddles forward, every step chaos and joy.
She's learning fast.
Headstrong.
Verbal.
Like her mother.
Zarah doesn't know I'm watching.
She never does.
She doesn't know I sit here most days, just like this.
Pen in one hand.
Whiskey in the other.
Not signing deals.
Not planning wars.
Just... watching the world I built move without me.
And not needing to control it.
Because the world doesn't need my control anymore.
Not when she's in it.
Not when they both are.
Wren falls.
Just a little stumble in the grass.
Zarah lifts her up fast.
Kisses her scraped knee.
Laughs.
I hear it through the glass.
And I swear to God—
it's louder than anything I've ever heard in my life.
I open the drawer.
There's a small box inside.
Velvet. Black.
I take it out.
Flip it open.
Inside: a key.
Not to the estate.
Not to the company.
Not to any vault I've locked men away for trying to steal.
It's the key to the east wing.
Where her studio is.
Where the nursery used to be.
Where Wren will one day sit beside her and paint futures I never had the imagination to invent.
I leave it on the desk.
Beside a note.
"For her. When she's ready.
Not to open something.
But to build."
They're still out there.
Still glowing in the sun.
And for the first time in forty-three years
I don't feel the need to chase anything.
Because what I want...
Already runs barefoot through my garden.
Already sings off-key in my shower.
Already breathes beside me in the dark and whispers "more" when she doesn't mean sex,
but love.
My legacy isn't concrete and gold.
It's laughter in the yard.
It's paint on tiny fingers.
It's a girl named Wren
and a woman named Zarah
and the obedience I thought I demanded—
but ended up giving them instead.
Not out of weakness.
Not out of loss.
But out of something else.
Something permanent.
Something pure.
Love.
