Page 62 of The Sound of Forever
She doesn’t need to know how miserable she made Ophelia’s life, and how I let her. That’s something for the therapist and myself. It’s a work in progress, but I’ve been doing better on all fronts.
“And your dad?” she continues.
“The famous Kit Stone,” I confirm with a wry smile. “He was okay. Loved him too. But honestly? Neither one of my parents should have been allowed to have children. They were . . . negligent. We survived, but just barely.”
Julie reaches out, placing a hand on mine. “With time you’ll learn to forgive them, and you have to remember that you’re not them.”
“I’m trying to . . . do better,” I say, not sure if I’m talking about being a better person by forgiving them, or by not being them. Probably both.
Her thumb brushes against my hand, and I feel something shift between us. Her gaze holds mine, searching, and I lean forward, unable to stop myself. When our lips meet, it’s soft, tentative, but it deepens quickly. Her hands slide to my chest, and I pull her closer, one hand threading into her hair. This woman, this beautiful woman is not only allowing me into her space, but supporting me as I find who I can be. She’s everything.
Julianna Valencia is the light that cuts through the vast, endless dark, a defiant spark in a world too often dimmed. She’s music—not fleeting or hollow, but a rhythm that lingers, winding its way into the deepest corners of my being, leaving everything fuller.
She’s the sound of what’s good in the world, soft and unassuming, like laughter carried on the wind or the first notes of a song you’ve never heard but already know by heart. She’s the sound of caterpillars transforming into butterflies, delicate and painstaking, proof that beauty is born from struggle, that fragility can birth wings.
And she’s the sound of my soul, pulsing with life I forgot could exist, the quiet melody of something long lost rediscovering its song. Every part of her demands to be heard, even when I feel unworthy of the music.
When we kiss, we’re not just touching. We’re making music in the deepest, most hidden parts of ourselves. It’s a symphony of every ache and every longing, every hope I thought I’d buried. She’s the crescendo, the rising chord that makes it impossible to stay silent, and I can’t help but give myself over to her song—completely, utterly, forever.
As we finally part, her forehead rests against mine, and we’re both breathing harder.
“Keane,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“Yeah?” I murmur, my thumb brushing her cheek.
“I’m glad you’re part of my life.” Her lips curve into the softest smile.
“Me too,” I reply, meaning it more than I ever have before.
“Will you stay the night?” she asks.
“As long as I’m invited, I’ll be here as long as you want,” I respond, kissing her again.
ChapterFifty-Seven
Julianna
Not sure whatKeane and his people did, but what I thought would become a big problem, a bomb that could destroy Rayne’s life, became nothing. Well, not really nothing. It did change things, but not in the way I thought when Hank Nichols came to my door.
It has been two weeks since we received the DNA test results confirming that Rayne was, in fact, related to the Nichols family. Two weeks of processing a truth that reshaped everything I thought we knew about Rayne’s origins. They aren’t fighting me for custody. Steve’s mother, Anne Nichols, had made that abundantly clear during our last meeting.
“We’re not here to take her from you, Julianna,” Anne had said, her voice steady but laced with emotion. “We just . . . we just want to know her, give her a family—and of course make you part of it too. Steve would have wanted that.”
Apparently, Steve had been desperate to have a child before he died. He wanted to leave a legacy. Anne had explained it as delicately as she could, but the implication was clear: Steve and Elena hadn’t been in love. They hadn’t been in a relationship. They had merely shared a mutual desire to bring a child into the world. Then Elena, overwhelmed and afraid, had fled.
“She was probably terrified we’d try to take the baby from her,” Anne had admitted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “And maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong to think that. Back then, I was so angry, so desperate to hold on to a piece of Steve. I might have done anything. But now . . . now, I just want to be part of her life. If you’ll let us.”
The idea of sharing Rayne, even in the smallest way, was terrifying. But how could I deny her the chance to know part of her family, especially when they were approaching this with such care? I thought of my own childhood, the fractured pieces of family I’d let slip away. I wish I had stayed in touch with my paternal grandparents after my parents divorced. Though I hated how my parents had handled their separation, now that my father and I were trying to mend our relationship, I understood more. That understanding was helping me cope with Rayne’s current situation.
I sit at the kitchen table, a stack of custody agreements, visitation schedules, and other legal documents spread out before me. The lawyer Keane hired drafted them carefully, each clause and stipulation designed to protect Rayne’s interests. Though the Nichols family aren’t fighting me, we all agreed that having everything in writing was the safest option. Still, the burden of the decision I’m about to make presses down on me, and the thought of sharing my niece—even in small increments—is unsettling.
Keane walks in, his steps quiet but purposeful. He carries a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of toast in the other. Setting them down in front of me, he pulls out a chair and sits beside me.
“You had breakfast already?” he asks, his tone gentle. “You’ve been here since . . . well, I really don’t know.”
“I . . . I will soon,” I answer absently, my eyes still on the documents.
“You’ve been staring at those papers since yesterday,” he says, leaning back slightly to get a better look at me. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
