Page 121 of Knotted

“I’m yours,” I whisper against his lips. “Always and forever yours.”

Epilogue

BRIAN

“You made it!” Taylor squeals, throwing her arms around me in a hug so tight, it’s basically a chokehold.

I laugh, gasping for air. “You literally saw me yesterday. And I’m pretty sure Trent is giving me the stink eye.”

“It’s my resting bitch face,” he deadpans, sliding an arm around Taylor’s waist and pulling her close. “That, and I’m a possessive twat.”

Her grin practically lights up the room as she melts into him. They kiss, slow and sweet, and for a moment, I almost forget it’s Taylor—the new Taylor—always conscious, always with an eye on making sure no one catches her guy in anything less than the best light.

The waiter swings by, and it’s clear Taylor’s latest PR campaign—Sober Curious: Explore Your Options—is catching fire. The tray’s stacked, not just with the usual champagne but with Kir Royale Kombucha and alcohol-free cookies-and-cream espressotinis loaded with collagen and protein, a favorite among expecting mothers and athletes alike.

Judging by the buzz around the room, it’s a hit. The Instagram-worthy shots are already making waves, one of the highlights of this year’s Excellence Media Gala. We all have a glass in hand.

Trent swirls his drink, eyes fixed on the stage. “She’s really in her element.” It’s been a year since we were last here, and everything has changed. Especially my girl.

I follow his gaze, watching Jules take the room by storm. No hesitation, no flinching from the cameras. This is her moment—her voice—and she fucking owns it.

“Damn right,” I murmur, pride swelling in my chest. “She’s a force.”

Jules catches my eye, and that coy little smile is my undoing every damn time.

As she’s gearing up for yet another photo op with a legion of admirers, I watch her refresh her lipstick—the red one.

My cue.

I know if I save her now, she’ll make it worth my while later.

I send Harrison a quick text and turn to Trent and Taylor. “Excuse me.”

Taylor giggles, taking my drink, already knowing we’re about to attempt to slip out unnoticed. “Go rescue your woman.”

I weave through the crowd. She’s mid-conversation with some high-profile journalists when I step up, but the throngs of people around her barely notice me. They’re too busy yammering about influencers and likes to even blink in my direction.

Do I love that none of them glances my way? Hell yes. I’m officially yesterday’s news, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

My lifeis best lived in the shadows, behind the scenes, while Jules has fully embraced basking in the spotlight—on her terms.

Still, I puff out a breath, because I can only stand here and eye-fuck my wife for so long. Clearing my throat, I tap her bare shoulder, my finger subtly skimming the black spaghetti strap for a brief, teasing moment. “A word.”

She flashes a polite smile to the group. “I’ll be right back.”

We walk off and I lean in close, whispering, “Liar.”

“Desperate times,” she mutters, draining the last of her virgin espressotini as we slip out the door.

The second we step outside, flashbulbs explode like a storm. Paparazzi swarm. “Ms. Sun! Congratulations on your win!”

Her win. Jules has rallied enough support to push a bill on pen name rights. It’s a hell of a fight, but making sure writers can’t have their pen names stripped or misused? She’s changing the game, and I’m loving every second.

My little Peach Pop is out here taking names and kicking ass.

Her smile grows wider. “Thank you.”

“When’s the big day?” another reporter shouts.

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