Page 87 of Widow's Walk

Every note she plays is a truth she would never dare to speak. And I understand it. God help me, I do.

It’s mourning and rage. It’s the sound of a girl who never got to be soft, still trying to remember what softness feels like.

The crescendo builds louder, more violent. Her hands slamming the keys, notes shattering like glass. I feel it in my chest. Like she’s trying to cut the music out of herself with each stroke.

Then—silence.

She freezes, hands still hovering over the keys. She’s breathing heavily, but her lips are sealed tight. Slowly, she lowers her hands into her lap.

I stay silent and still. Knowing she needs some time to process and avoid the retreat into herself. Her head finally turns to me. Her face impassive, as if she didn’t just splay her soul for me.

I know she’s going to act as if this meant nothing. But I know what I saw. She let me see the part of her no one touches.

Her lips curl. “So, was it worth it? Giving up your one night for this?”

I crack a smile and shake my head, feeling heat rush to my face. “It was,” I say lowly, chin dipped.

Epilogue

Blackwell

Icarry the papers as if they’re made of stone.

Every step toward Sinclair feels heavier, as if she can already sense what’s coming. She’s lounging in the shade by the pool with the ocean in the background, toned legs stretched out, sunglasses on, and giving the illusion of not a care in the world.

Her black bikini is simple. Minimal. But she makes it look like sin in the flesh. And her hair is almost as dark, back to its natural shade.

She doesn’t glance up when I come up on her. She’s focused on her phone screen, playing solitaire. She’s addicted to the damn game. Another quirk that doesn’t fit but somehow belongs.

I take the lounge chair beside her, and she ignores me. So, I slap the papers down next to her. She eyes them with uninterest, one eyebrow raised, then takes a short glance up at me before going back to her game.

“What are those?” she asks.

I calmly take her phone away, and she scowls at me. “I need you to sign these,” I say evenly. She stares at me, then I tilt my head towards them in a gesture.

Giving a dramatic sigh and eye roll when she removes her sunglasses, she picks them up, and something in me tightens. The longer her eyes read each line, flicking back and forth like a machine built to detect bullshit, the more anxious I get. It isn’t nerves. It’s readiness.

After skimming through the second paper, her expression hasn’t changed. But I can see it behind her eyes when she looks at me. She’s affected by this.

“A marriage license,” she says flatly. My eyes flick to her engagement ring back on her finger, and I nod once. She squints her eyes in suspicion. “And…you want me to sign it.”

“I’m asking you to.”

Her eyebrows practically hit her hairline. “Asking?” she echoes, like it’s a foreign word in her mouth.

“Yes.” My voice stays steady. I’m giving her a choice. Her first life-altering choice. Though if she refuses, I’ll sign it for her anyway. She’ll eventually get over it. But I want her to make this choice. To choose me. To choose this life.

She holds my gaze, quiet but calculating. Always reading between the lines. Always deciding who she needs to be in any given moment. The rebel. The threat. The untouchable. Her reactions are never careless. They’re crafted for impact. To protect. To provoke. To keep control.

The recklessness of hers still lives strong, itching to rear its head. But beneath it, something else is stirring. Sinclair is stilllearning who she is without the venom. She’s so used to keeping the world at arm’s length.

Her face drops a little, and I almost hold my breath. “Are you going to give me a pen?” The levity of her tone is armor and somewhat aggravating. But I hand a pen over casually.

I watch, feeling every second tick by. She pauses, the pen hovering over the paper. Then, without any more hesitation, she signs. No flourish. Just that elegant, sharp signature of hers. A slash of ink that feels like a vow.

She hands the papers back to me and reclines like nothing happened. Eyes closed, chin tilted up.

Joon-kharâsh.

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