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“You look beautiful, wife.”

I glance down at myself.

“I’m wearing no makeup, and my hair needs washing.”

“So, the fuck what? You’re still the most beautiful woman on the planet, with or without all that shit on your face.”

His eyes travel slowly over me, and warmth creeps into my cheeks. Ridiculous. I’m a woman in my fifties, for God’s sake.

With a smirk, he sets down his chisel and approaches me. I follow his every move.

It never ceases to amaze me how Lucan still carries the same quiet confidence that once made grown men fear him. Most people know him as the artist. The sculptor. The genius who transforms marble into miracles.

I remember the man before that.

The one who sits at the head of the Holy Trinity empire. The one whose name makes powerful people nervous. The one who nearly dies for me and our son before walking away from everything, he’s ever known.

For me.

For our family.

Sometimes, I wonder whether he understands what he gives up. Whether he ever regrets it.

Then he looks at me as though I’m worth every single thing he leaves behind, and I remember.

He never regrets it.

Not once.

My husband pulls me against him, immediately dusting my pink cashmere sweater with marble powder. “You’re perfect.”

“I have wrinkles. Look.” I point at my face.

“You do.”

“You’re an ass.”

His smile widens. “Still here, though.”

“Always,” I whisper.

No matter how much he annoys me, I’d choose him in every lifetime.

God, I love this man.

Still. Always. Forever.

Lucan studies my face, his gaze settling on the crease between my brows—the one that appears whenever I’m worried or thinking too hard. “Something’s bothering you.”

I narrow my eyes. “You know me too well.”

“I should hope so.”

He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my temple. “Tell me.”

I hesitate.

“I worry about her.”