Page 161 of Blind Prophet

“No. My house manager offered, but I told her not to bother.”

“Do you still have our decorations?”

“I do. Found the boxes after moving to Colorado.”

“You found them?”

“Well, the packers found them. Asked me what to do with the boxes.”

“You worked with the packers?”

“No. The house manager did. She asked me.”

I grin, rolling my eyes.

We navigate the rest of the party, Dorian’s hand rarely leaving mine. As he charms Ryan’s wife with a story about satellite launches, I find myself watching him—this man I once left, now returned to me somehow both changed and the same—and still evolving.

Later, as we walk back along the moonlit path toward the cars, glittering string lights marking our way, he pulls me close against the evening chill.

“I never put up those decorations after you left,” he confesses quietly. “Couldn’t bear to see them without you.”

I stop, turning to face him. “I never bought new ones. Didn’t have the desire to replace what we had. Christmas kind of lost its sparkle.”

His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in that way that always makes my heart skip. “Next Christmas.”

“Next Christmas,” I echo, the simple phrase containing a universe of promises.

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch lingering. “Maybe we could start a new tradition. Something just for us.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we each choose one new ornament every year. Something that represents the year we had together.”

I smile, leaning into him. “What would this year’s be?”

“A helicopter,” he suggests with a laugh. “Or maybe a yacht.”

“Or maybe just a key,” I say softly. “For second chances and new beginnings.”

He pulls me close, his lips brushing my forehead. “I like that. The key to everything that matters.”

Around us, the holiday lights twinkle like stars brought down to earth, illuminating not just the path before us, but all the possibilities that lie ahead. Not a perfect ending, but a perfect beginning—again

CHAPTER40

EPILOGUE

DORIAN

The car service pulls up in front of the familiar two-story brick colonial in Old Greenwich, Connecticut. Snow dusts the lawn like powdered sugar, and Christmas wreaths with red velvet ribbons hang in each window. Even in daylight, the Christmas tree positioned behind the picture window glows with warm white lights—clearly lit in anticipation of their daughter’s arrival.

I take a deep breath, my stomach tightening. Last time I stood on this doorstep, I was delivering Caroline’s childhood possessions after she left me.

The front door opens, and her parents crowd the stoop. Her father stands patiently behind his wife, and surprisingly, his focus appears to be on his daughter, not on the man he instructed to “take care of her.”

Anne, Caroline’s mother, releases her daughter and turns to me. Her smile isn’t as warm as the one she gave Caroline, but it’s more than I expected. “Dorian. It’s good to see you again.”

Take care of her.

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