“Ramos Consulting. I love that for you.”
“I think it’ll be good. Set my own pace. Work from home. Travel when necessary. But first, I’m going to take a break and just enjoy being with you.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, lifting my mouth to brush my lips across his. “You can work on meeting your orgasm quota.”
“I am good with numbers.”
“Among other things.”
He smiles and takes my hand. “Ready to go home?”
“Wait. Where did my dad go?”
“He left. I told him, I got you.”
I thread our fingers together, feeling a deep peace settling into my bones. We step out into the quiet night, hand in hand. I look up at him against the backdrop of a starry sky.
I didn’t win at the ballot box.
That still hurts.
But I got my win.
Not a title.
Not a seat at City Hall.
Something better.
I got myself back.
And I found this man.
Someone who showed up right from the very beginning. Who stood beside me through every high and low. Who never asked me to be less than who I am.
Someone I can always count on.
And that right there makes me know that whatever comes next, we’ve got this.
Epilogue
Rayne
The mahogany desk in the Mayor’s office looks exactly as it did four years ago, but the nameplate has changed.
Rayne Webber.
I’d spent forty-eight months growing my grassroots following, doing good work in the community, and blocking Diablo’s bulldozing efforts whenever they threatened our sustainability. I even got myFemme Magazinefeaturein their Changemakers issue—proof that the work mattered long before winning the race.
Still, when Diablo’s term was up, we ran it back. Anika returned as my campaign manager, and DK stepped in as chief strategist. It was an exhausting, relentless run. But it was all worth it the moment I stood at the podium last week and gave my acceptance speech.
I trail my fingers over the polished wood of the desk. The heavy weight of the mayoral medallion is off my neck, and sitting proudly on the display shelf. The swearing-in ceremony lastnight was a blur of flashing cameras, victorious applause, and my dad wiping tears from his eyes in the front row.
Now, on a Saturday afternoon, the office is a tomb. Empty except for us and a stack of cardboard boxes waiting to be unpacked.
DK walks in, and my heart still does the exact same stuttering flip it did the first time I saw him. He’s as handsome as ever, his eyes crinkling with pride behind his lenses, so fierce it warms me from across the room.
Balanced against his chest, looking entirely unbothered by the gravity of City Hall, is our nine-month-old daughter.
