Epilogue, 8 months later:

The delivery room had been chaos in its purest, rawest form: bright fluorescent lights stabbing my eyes, nurses shouting instructions over the beeping of machines, my body trembling from effort I barely had left. But through it all, Nicholas never let go.

Not once.

He held my hand so tightly I thought we might break together. His forehead stayed pressed against mine when the contractions came too fast, when the fear clawed up my spine and made me think I couldn’t do it. He whispered things only meant for me — soft encouragement, sharp promises. He carried me through it when I thought I wouldn’t make it to the other side.

When Leo came into the world, wailing and furious, Nicholas laughed and cried all at once, burying his face against my hair like he couldn’t believe it was real. Lily followed minutes later, quieter but no less stubborn. Her tiny fingers wrapped around his pinkie as if she’d already decided to hold on forever.

We named her after the first lilies we planted outside our new house, a small backyard, uneven grass, but ours.

Nicholas held them that first night, one bundled in each arm. I watched him from the bed, too exhausted to speak, my heart splintering and healing all at once. He looked down at them like he’d been handed the stars, and maybe he had. Maybe we both had.

By then, we were already married.

It hadn’t been a grand affair. It was just us, a quiet backyard, a sycamore tree we’d promised would outlast every storm.

I’d kept my last name, and when I’d worried it might hurt him, he’d just smiled, brushed my hair behind my ear, and said, “It suits you. You sound like fire.”

Now, mornings blurred together into a symphony of baby cries and lullabies half-sung while stumbling over scattered bottles. Nicholas moved through it all with a calm I envied. He carried Leo against his chest while I rocked Lily against mine.

Some nights, after the house quieted and the twins slept with their mouths slack and fists curled, Nicholas would find me passed out on the couch.

He’d press a kiss to my temple, gentle and careful, and whisper against my skin, “You gave me everything.”

I always whispered back, “So did you.”

And for the first time in my life, I didn’t fear the future. I wasn’t waiting for the ground to crack open beneath me. I had found where I was supposed to be…with him, with them, with a life I had chosen, built, fought for.

I thought nothing could touch that peace.

Until my phone buzzed on the coffee table late one Sunday afternoon.

I didn’t check it at first. I was too busy laughing at Nicholas pretending to lose a staring contest with Leo, who blinked once and promptly drooled all over his onesie. But something in the pit of my stomach twisted — a chill at the base of my spine that hadn’t stirred in months.

I reached for the phone.

And I saw the name.

Daniel.

My hands tightened around the edges of the phone until my knuckles ached. Nicholas noticed immediately. He stood, cradling Leo in one arm, his expression shifting in an instant, from relaxed to alert.

“What is it?” he asked, voice already low, serious.

I didn’t answer right away. I just read the text once, twice, three times, trying to believe the words were some glitch, some mistake.

Daniel: “I know the kids are mine. I have proof. And I’m going to take them at any cost.”

My lungs seized up.

Nicholas was at my side before I could even process the fear spiking through me. He gently set Leo down in his bassinet, then took the phone from my hand, scanning the message. His face darkened.

“He’s lying,” Nicholas said immediately. “You know he’s lying.”

I tried to swallow, but the knot in my throat wouldn’t move. “What if he—?”

“He can’t touch them,” Nicholas cut in. His hand was already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call the lawyer. Tonight. I don’t care if it’s a Sunday.”

He wrapped an arm around me, guiding me down onto the couch before my legs gave out.

“He’s bluffing,” he said again, softer this time. “He’s desperate. He lost everything, his family’s respect, his reputation, his access to you. This is all he has left: empty threats.”

“But if he drags it into court, if he says—”

“Let him,” Nicholas said, his mouth against my hair. “We’ll bury him. You have medical records. You have witnesses. You have the truth. And you have me.”

His voice was a vow, steadier than the earth beneath my feet.

“I’m not losing you,” he said fiercely. “Or them. Not to him. Not to anyone.”