"Some promises don't need words — they're written in the way you stay"
The courtroom was quieter than I expected. All eyes on me, yet somehow it felt like no one was really there. The gavel echoed, papers shuffled, murmurs faded. I took a deep breath and tried to steady the mix of nerves, relief, and something heavier—release.
Testifying against Clint and Victor, recounting everything, wasn't easy. Every word felt like lifting a stone I'd carried for years. Some of it was mine, some of it was borrowed from fear and grief, but all of it needed to be said.
When I finished, the room was silent. Not the heavy kind of silence, but the kind that tells you: a weight has been lifted, and life can finally continue.
I stepped down from the heiress position shortly after. The title, the power, the endless responsibility... it all belonged to someone else now. Someone capable, smart, and resilient: Lelani Maxwell. I'd met her once before; her energy was sharp and kind. She would take Montez in a new direction, one that didn't leave shadows behind.
Handing over the keys, the documents, the legacy... it was strange. Cold, in a way, but freeing too. I realized that letting go of Montez didn't mean letting go of myself. I could finally live for Sophie, not for the expectations of an empire that had caused me so much pain.
Grey left the protective service world as well. He started his own firm; not a lavish empire, not a massive company, but a firm dedicated to helping people. Food, essential goods, support for the needy, survivors of war, beggars, people who'd been left behind by the world. And the one person he hired? Me.
I smiled at that every day. To be trusted, to be needed—not for the heiress I was, but for the person I'd become. We worked side by side, not as employer and employee, but as partners. He leaned into laughter more, smiled more. I leaned into life more, breathed easier, slept better.
I started my trauma recovery foundation shortly after. At first, it was small: one office, one therapist, a handful of volunteers. Slowly, it grew. People came, sharing stories that mirrored mine, others worse, others different. I helped them find their own strength, or at least hold their hands while they did. Healing became tangible in those rooms, in the grateful smiles and tears of release.
And then I started writing again. Late at night, candle flickering, coffee cooling at my side. The words flowed differently now—they were sharper, softer, real. I told the story I wanted to tell. My story. Not Victor's shadow, not Clint's malice, not Grey's protection... just mine. And when I asked him to read the draft of my book, he held it like it was sacred.
"Not Forever, Just Always," he said, his voice quiet, reverent. "That's beautiful. Perfect."
I watched him carefully, noticing the way he didn't just read the words but felt them. He understood. And in that moment, the entire chaos of the past—the fire, the threats, the stolen years, the fear—felt distant, like dust caught in a beam of morning sunlight. The only thing that mattered was now.
I smiled more. Out loud, in the sunlight, in the quiet, in the presence of the man who had never left my side.
We weren't defined by our pasts anymore.
We were defined by what we built together—love, trust, hope.
And that was enough.
Forever was scary.
Always was certain.
And for the first time in my life, I felt it.