He smirks. “What, you want a rabbit hanging on a tree instead? That’d be weird.”

I roll my eyes, nudging him with my foot where he’s kneeling beside the crib. “That’s not what I mean, but if you can make a cute owl, I’ll take it.”

“I can do anything for you, Blythe. I will do anything for you,” he states, and those words make me fall in love even more.

“The mural sounds perfect,” I whisper.

Atlas grins, looking smug. “Told you I had good ideas.”

I roll my eyes again, but my heart is so full it almost hurts.

This is our life now. Not survival. Not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I run the parlor’s office now, not just answering phones but managing everything—schedules, artists, finances. I have control over something. Atlas works five days a week now, and only one of those days is over the weekends. We’ve built a team strong enough that he doesn’t have to do it all on his own.

And therapy?

Therapy is going better than I ever imagined.

Not perfect. Some days, I still feel like the girl who had to run. The one who disappeared to survive. The daughter who owed her parents blind obedience. Like I deserved everything Winston did to me, because that is what he made me believe—that I was worthless. But I’m learning how to exist without fear pressing into every corner of me, learning to love myself and be proud of who I am.

I’m learning how to breathe.

How to build.

How to love.

I press my hand to my belly, warmth unfurling as I feel the faintest movement beneath my palm. A slow, stretching glide. She reminds me that everything I’ve fought for—the sleepless nights, the hard choices, the moments I wasn’t sure I’d make it through—were worth it because she’s safe.

We’re safe.

“She’s moving,” I murmur, my voice barely above a breath.

His eyes drop to my stomach, darkening with something deeper than love. More than devotion. He kneels in front of me, pressing his lips to my belly, whispering something I can’t hear, but I feel it in my bones. Then his gaze lifts, locking onto mine. A slow drag of heat crawls up my spine.

I know what he wants.

I know what I want.

His fingers trace up my thighs, slow, possessive. The fabric of my skirt bunches beneath his hands, rising higher, exposing more. My pulse stumbles, my breathing going unsteady as he finds the band of my underwear and drags it down my legs.