“We did,” Edith cooed, her eyes raking over me and Stephen with deliberate cruelty. “And, Trudy, it’s so brave of you to put yourself out there again at this stage of your life. Really, it takes courage. It’s nice that you’re willing to try something so different from what you’re used to.” She tilted her head, her smile never wavering.
The words landed exactly where she intended them to, right in the soft spot of my insecurity about age, about moving on, about whether this was all too fast.
But before I could respond, Stephen stepped forward. His voice was smooth as silk and twice as deadly.
“Yeah, Trudy is something special,” he said, wrapping his arm around me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever held. “And you’re right; she could have her pick of men. But she choseme. And I thank God every fucking day for that.” He smiled at Edith, and it was the smile of a predator. “You know, I think it’s really admirable how you stuck it out, Edith. Ten years and you’re still trying to make it work. Takes real dedication to stay in something when clearly neither of you is getting what you need.” He smiled, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “But Trudy here? She’s getting everything she needs. And that’s what matters.”
Edith’s face went red. Harold looked away, probably hiding a smile.
“Come on, babe,” Stephen said to me, his voice turning soft again as he guided me toward his car. “I want to get you home and out of that dress.”
We left Edith sputtering, and I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from my chest as Stephen opened the car door for me.
At home, we moved around each other with easy familiarity as we got ready for bed. Stephen in the bathroom brushing his teeth; me in the bedroom sliding out of the dress that had caused so much trouble at the party. By the time he emerged in just his boxer briefs, I was sitting on the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts, my hair pulled back.
“Can I ask you something?” I said, watching him move toward me.
“Always.”
“The journal. What are you going to do with it? When you finish the last entry, I mean. What happens then?”
Stephen was quiet for a long moment. He sat down beside me on the bed, his expression serious in the lamplight. “I talked to King about it,” he said finally. “About telling Grace everything. And he shut that down hard.”
I turned to look at him. “What did he say?”
“He said Grace doesn’t need to remember her mother that way. That some secrets die with us. That she’s already carrying enough weight. She doesn’t need to know her mother was capable of murder.” He ran a hand over his face. “King’s not wrong. Grace loves her mother. That love is real, and it’s pure, and it’s one of the few things that got her through everything else. What good would it do to taint that?”
I took his hand, squeezing gently.
“What do you think?” he asked me, and I could hear the conflict in his voice.
“I think King is right,” I said firmly. “Stephen, Grace doesn’t need to know this. Not because she’s not strong enough or because she doesn’t deserve the truth. But because some truths don’t serve anyone. They won’t make her life better. They won’t change what happened. They’d just add another layer of pain to a woman who’s already survived so much.”
He was quiet, still wrestling with it.
“Your daughter,” I continued, “is about to become a mother. She’s building a life with King, creating a family. What does she need right now: the knowledge that her mother was a murderer, or the ability to hold onto the good memories she has?”
Stephen looked at me, and I could see the moment he accepted it. Not easily, and not without regret, but he accepted it.
“You’re incredible, you know that? Your concern for my daughter, your love for her... that’s who you are. And it makes me love you more than I thought possible. Every single day with you, I fall deeper.”
I didn’t have words for that. My throat felt tight, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts I couldn’t quite articulate. So instead, I kissed him.
What started as a gentle kiss quickly became something deeper, more urgent. His lips were soft but insistent, and I felt myself melting into him. He pulled me closer, his strong armswrapping around my waist, and I went willingly. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes intense and filled with so much love it took my breath away. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside. His gaze traveled over my body, reverent and possessive at the same time.
“Fuck, Trudy,” he murmured, his voice rough and raw. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. And all fucking mine.”
He laid me down on the bed, his body covering mine with careful deliberation. His lips found mine again as his hands roamed slowly across my skin, my shoulders, my ribs, the dip of my waist. Every touch was intentional, unhurried, like he had all night to memorize me. Every touch sent shivers through me, igniting something primal and electric.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against my ear. “Let me love you right.”
I nodded, unable to find words, and he continued his slow descent. His mouth traced a path down my neck, across my collarbone, and lower still. He took his time, kissing every inch of me like I was something sacred. When he reached my breasts, he paused, looking up at me with dark, hungry eyes.
“This is mine,” he said, his hand splayed across my heart. “All of this. You’re mine, Trudy. Every fucking part of you.”
“Yes,” I breathed.
He entered me slowly, so slowly, and we both gasped at the sensation. No rushing, no urgency, just the two of us, connected, moving together like we were choreographed for this. His pace was deliberate, deep, hitting that perfect place that made me gasp his name.
