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“I had a terrible role model for a mother.” Isabella leans her head on my shoulder. “But Aaron does just fine, and so does Nina. And you’ve been practicing on me for nine months. I think we’re going to be okay.”
Outside the window, the snow is still falling, soft and steady, over the city that used to feel like a cage.
Later, after Isabella finally falls asleep and Elena is tucked into the bassinet beside her, I take the worn Moleskine journal out of my coat pocket. I’ve written in it every night since Montauk, every single thing I’m grateful for. I’ve never shown it to anyone.
I open to a fresh page and write one line.
Elena Rose. Everything.
Then I sit in the dark between the two of them and listen to them breathe, a man who swore his family would end with him, holding on to the beginning of a new one with both hands.
EPILOGUE II
ISABELLA
The grease from the fried clams soaks through the red-and-white paper in the red plastic basket as we sit on the weathered picnic bench by the water. The moored sailboats bob in the marina, the salty air making Sebastian’s hair go wonderfully, uncharacteristically wild.
The Hamptons in late May is a study in controlled chaos. Beyond the clam shack—the marina, the green trees, the water sparkling in the midafternoon sunlight—there are white-linen parties, valet lines three blocks long, and enough chilled rosé to float a yacht. But inside this little slice of heaven, we are just Isabella and Sebastian, two people sharing a basket of fried clams, fries, and beer. Well, Sebastian has a beer. I have an iced tea, because I’m still nursing, and the reason why is fast asleep in a carrier strapped to Sebastian’s chest.
Sebastian leans across the table and cups my face. I think it’s sweet until he brushes something from the corner of my mouth. “You had some tartar sauce there.”
But it’s still sweet, the way he wipes the corner of my mouth with a gentleness that still makes my heart do a frantic little flip-flop. His hand lingers on my cheek for a second longer than necessary.
“Is the great Sebastian King really performing manual labor at a picnic table?” I tease. “If the board saw this, they’d think you lost your edge.”
He laughs. “My edge is exactly where it needs to be, sweetheart. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Usually, Montauk is our getaway spot. We’ve begun retreating here, no matter the weather, to escape the spin, the headlines, and the effort of rebuilding the King family legacy. But today feels different, and I’m not sure why.
He looks out toward the docked sailboats. “I can’t believe it’s almost been a year since I first brought you here.”
I watch his face as we fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes with time and tested trust, remembering those first moments of softness between us.
He’s wearing a navy polo and chinos, his hair ruffled by the sea breeze, his stubble slightly overgrown. But it’s the expression on his face that arrests me.
He looks settled.
“Bella,” he says suddenly, pushing the basket of clams to the side and wiping his hands and mouth on a napkin. “The King family has a vault. You’ve seen it.”
I nod slowly. I have. It’s a literal fortress in the basement of the estate in Greenwich, filled with jewels and historical artifacts that belong in the Smithsonian.
“My mother expects me to give you the family engagement ring,” he continues, his fingers tapping nervously against the wood. “It’s been on the fingers of four generations of King fiancées.”
My breath hitches. This is it. I’ve practiced the PR response for this in my head a thousand times: how to announce it, how to protect the ring, how to manage the Cinderella narrative the press will inevitably come up with.
“But that’s the problem,” Sebastian says, reaching into his pocket. “That ring belongs to the King family. It belongs to the history books. It’s not us and the story we’re trying to begin.”
He pulls out a small, velvet box.
“I don't want you to wear the King legacy’s expectations on your finger.” He opens the box.
I stop breathing.
It isn't a ten-carat diamond. It isn't a sapphire. It’s a simple, elegant band of hammered yellow gold. Set into the metal are three small, radiant stones: a clear diamond, a sea-glass green emerald, and a glowing amber. They aren't huge, but they catch the late afternoon sun with a fire that feels personal.
Sebastian doesn't get down on one knee. He doesn't have to. Here, at a sticky picnic table with the smell of sea salt and old fryer oil in the air, our daughter asleep against his chest, he holds the ring up.
“Isabella Medina, I’ve spent my whole life being a King. But I’ve found my place in the world with you, I’ve found my family with you. Will you marry me?”
