A list of names scrolls across the screen—all the writers who wrote the hits that kept the world singing this past year—and my chest goes tight, my heart hammering, the world narrowing to this singular moment—

And then I hear it.

“Jase Gizmodo—Sweet Surrender.”

For a second, I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Then Hendrix launches herself at me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her laughter bright with mine as she presses kisses over my face.

“Oh my God, oh my God, you did it!” she squeals.

Our phones start chirping and ringing like the world has been set on fire. The texts keep coming but there are certain ones that stand out. Specific ones I care about.

Vince: It’s about fucking time. Congrats, man.

Hawke: One helluva song. They finally got it right.

Rocket: It was all Hendrix, wasn’t it? Tell her congrats.

Nathaniel: I’m proud of you brother. Mom is too, in her own way too.

The last one puts me in a chokehold like I didn’t expect. I squeeze my eyes closed, pull Hendrix close, and hang on for dear life.

“You really did it,” Hendrix says against the base of my throat as the texts keep coming.

“No. We did it,” I correct and revel in the feel of her against me. My anchor. My beauty on the other side of my struggle. My everything.

And we did do it. We survived the odds. We made this work.

“I love you, you know.” She leans back and brushes a kiss to my lips.

“I do. I’m one lucky son of a bitch that you do.”

“You know what’s better than a Grammy nomination?” she asks, mischief in her eyes.

I smirk, my hands sliding down her back as she straddles me, pressing herself flush against me. “What’s that?”

She leans in, lips brushing mine, and whispers, “Celebrating.”

I grin, rolling her underneath me on the couch. “Time to live a little.”

“Time to live and love a lot.” She laughs, bright and free, and I know—I know—this is just the beginning.

Because for once in my life, I finally got it right.

EPILOGUE TWO

EPILOGUE TWO

Gizmo

Five Years Later

“Daddy, I wanna go fast.”

Small fingers tug at mine, insistent, impatient. I glance down at my daughter, Lyric, her dark curls bouncing as she skips beside me, eyes bright, energy endless.

I grin. “Oh yeah? You wanna race?”

She gasps like I’ve just given her the greatest idea ever, her little sneakers already squeaking against the pavement as she gears up to bolt.

Hendrix laughs beside me, adjusting the strap of her baby carrier, little Ronen sleeping peacefully inside. “No racing in the parking lot. You’re going to hurt Daddy’s feelings when you beat him.”