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“What happened to needing space?” I can’t help but tease.
“Fuck space,” she snaps in a tone that’s far more Bee than Wren. Still, it suits her. “I almost lost you today. And it made me realize that I’d rather fight with you every single day for the rest of our lives than live a life without you in it.”
My God, that feels good to hear. “So I can come home now?”
Tears shine brightly in her eyes. “Please.”
I wrap my arms around her tight—and apparently, I squash my son in the process, because he cries out loudly. I take him from Wren and kiss his forehead. “You hear that, little man? Mama’s ready for us to be a family again.”
“We were always a family, Dmitri,” Wren corrects with a contented sigh—just before her eyes turn bright and dangerous. “But I swear to God, if you ever keep secrets from me again?—”
“I know, I know: you’ll kick my ass.”
“Ha! Your ass will be the least of your worries,” she warns, seizing my balls in a tight grasp. Then, giggling, she releases them and kisses me hard again while our son coos between us. “Now, for the love of all that is holy: let’s go home.”
More beautiful words have never been spoken.
EPILOGUE I: DMITRI
SIX MONTHS LATER
This time around, there are no wedding planners.
No over-the-top fanfare.
And sure as hell no unwanted guests.
What we do have is a simple outdoor ceremony that Bee and Wren planned together. She wanted a sunset ceremony by the ocean, which is how we ended up in Tulum at one of the best hotels in Mexico’s Riviera Maya. I bought out the entire hotel because, well, because I can.
Okay, so maybe simple is a little bit of an exaggeration.
Whatever I can do to spoil my beautiful wife, I will.
She gave me a lecture about extravagance after the fourth set of jewelry I had sent to her room. Told me that she didn’t need all the excess. But fuck it—she’s the queen of my world now.
And in my world, queens wear jewels.
As the first notes of the wedding march sound out, Bee strides up the aisle, right behind Madison Montgomery, who was called in to check on the bride half an hour ago for some last-minute bridal touch-ups.
We call her a friend as well as a client these days; she’d been so thrilled with the work that Wren did on her Chicago boutique store that she hired Egorov Industries to design two more flagship sites in London and Versailles. Of course, that meant more travel for Wren, but that was another reason for the private jet purchase. Much to her horror, I named it The Wren.
“The ceremony was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago,” I remind Bee as she slips into place just behind me. “She’s late.”
She barely deigns to look at me as she adjusts the collar of her black Prada suit. “A queen is never late,” Bee prattles in a fake English accent, quoting some movie or other I’ve never seen and never will. “Everyone else is simply early.”
The rolling of my eyes is damn near audible.
Bee giggles and gives me a nudge. “Cool your jets, Romeo—she’s coming. And even if she doesn’t, what does it matter? You’re already married.”
“I—” The ready retort on my tongue dies the moment I catch sight of Wren exiting the hotel in the near distance. A shimmer of white, like a mirage in the desert. “Ya na nebesakh,” I murmur under my breath.
Am I in heaven?
Madison and Wren have educated me repeatedly on women’s fashion in the last few months, so I know that her dress is a bespoke cream chiffon dress with subtle fuchsia accents traveling up the voluminous skirt. I know that the strapless corset is inlaid with hundreds of tiny pink seed pearls and I know that each one glitters wildly as she walks down the aisle under the setting sun.
I know that her heels are three inches tall because, when I told her she should wear comfortable flats instead, she gave me a double middle finger and then blue balls for daring to boss her around (though the blue balls didn’t last long, because she’s as thirsty for me as I am for her.)
Given the heels, I’m impressed that she can even balance Mischa, but she manages admirably, keeping our son hanging off her hip without breaking stride.
