Epilogue (1)

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London thrummed with the fever of Christmas approaching.

Every shopfront dripped with glittering ornaments and garlands wound tight around lampposts, their shimmer catching the weak December sun. Merchants stood in doorways with voices hoarse from shouting promises—last chance, final sale, don’t miss out—their desperation thinly veiled beneath forced cheer.

Passersby clutched wrapped parcels against their chests, gifts for someone loved, someone remembered. Children pressed sticky palms to frosted windows, eyes wide and hungry as they gazed at toys displayed just beyond reach.

They tugged at coat sleeves and pleaded in breathless whispers: If I’m good, will Santa bring me that one?

Through the noise and chaos, a car glided down the street in near silence.

The emblem on its hood gleamed. The sheer size of the sedan commanded attention. Even Londoners—who barely glanced at supercars anymore—turned to watch as it rolled through Oxford Circus, sleek and dark as a blade cutting through gauze.

Inside, Ian watched the world beyond the tinted glass with a faint curve to his mouth.

His gaze drifted over the children still frozen at the windows, their small faces lit with longing. He saw the way they chattered to their parents, eyes bright with hope barely restrained, and something warm flickered in his chest. His tongue swept across his lower lip. A habit. One he’d never quite broken.

The car moved on, leaving the bustle behind. Camden passed. The shopping districts thinned and gave way to quieter residential streets where wreaths hung on every door. Even those faded eventually, replaced by long stone walls and iron gates that spoke of old money and older names.

Home was close now.

The sedan turned down a road emptied of traffic and arrived at the entrance to the estate. The barrier was still lowered—always lowered—but the guards moved quickly when they saw the car approach. A button pressed. The barrier lifted. The men bowed as the sedan passed, a gesture of deference Ian no longer noticed.

The car rolled toward the main house.

Before it came to a full stop—before the driver could even open Ian’s door—someone came running from the mansion.

“Daddy!”

A girl with black hair flew down the steps.

Ian didn’t wait. He pushed the door open himself and stepped out just in time to catch her as she leapt into his arms. She laughed, bright and breathless, and buried her face against his chest. He held her easily, lifting her with the kind of practiced grace that came from years of doing exactly this.

She felt solid in his arms. Warm. Real.

“Why are you so late!” she demanded, pulling back just enough to glare at him.

“Sorry, Yuna.” His voice softened. “Were you waiting for me?”

The girl—Yuna—nodded so hard her hair bounced.

“Yes! But Mommy waited way more than I did!”

Ian’s expression shifted. A flicker of genuine distress crossed his face. “Oh, dear.”

“That’s why I told you to come home early today.” Yuna smacked his shoulder lightly, her frustration almost comical in its seriousness.

Ian sighed and started toward the house, still carrying her. “Yuna, please don’t say things like that with your mother’s face.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes my heart sink.”

She giggled, delighted, as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

The secretaries held the doors open as they passed through. Inside, the mansion’s lobby stretched wide and tall, dominated by a massive Christmas tree draped in hundreds of ornaments. Each one caught the light differently—gold, silver, crimson, glass—and cast fragmented rainbows across the marble floor.

Yuna’s face brightened the moment she saw it. She never tired of looking at the tree, no matter how many times she passed it each day. Her gaze drifted downward, toward the empty space at its base. She knew what would be there soon. In just a few days—Christmas morning—that space would overflow with boxes wrapped in ribbons and paper, stacked so high she could barely see over them.

It had been that way every year for seven years.

“Yuna, go upstairs and get ready.” Ian set her down gently. “We’re going out.”

“Okay! We’re seeing Yujin, right? Can I bring the present I made for her?”

“Of course.”

With his permission, Yuna sprinted toward the staircase, her footsteps echoing off the stone. Ian watched her disappear before turning toward the opposite staircase himself.

He climbed slowly, his hand brushing the banister. The second floor was quieter, the air heavier somehow. When he reached the door to their room, he paused. His palm dragged across his face as if he could physically prepare himself for what came next.

Then he opened the door and stepped inside.

Her scent hit him first—sweet, familiar, intoxicating. It wrapped around him like silk, and for a moment he simply stood there, breathing it in. He held her close every night, pressed his face into her hair as he fell asleep, yet every time he smelled her it felt like the first time. New. Devastating.

He steadied himself. He couldn’t afford to be weak now.

Jina sat at her vanity in the adjoining room, her back to him. She didn’t turn around when he entered. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. Through the mirror, he could see her face—the deliberate way she avoided his gaze.

Her dark hair was swept back in an elegant knot, not a strand out of place. Her skin looked impossibly smooth, flawless under the soft light. The deep red of her lips stood in sharp contrast to the black dress she wore, and the stylist had already finished her makeup by the time he arrived.

She looked perfect.

Perfect in a way that made his throat tight and his hands ache.

If he could, he would have torn that dress off her right then and laid her out on the bed until she was ruined and breathless beneath him.

Any other day, he would have.

But not today.

“Jina.”

Silence.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for a pair of earrings the stylist had chosen and began fastening them to her ears with careful precision.

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out quieter than he intended. “There was an issue in the States at the last minute—”

Her eyes flicked to him in the mirror. Just for a second. Then she sighed, short and resigned, and held out a necklace without a word.

“Put it on for me.”

Ian’s face brightened immediately. He took the necklace from her hand, relief flooding through him. He knew what this meant. She’d forgiven him.

He looked down at the piece in his palm. It was the necklace he’d commissioned for this year’s Christmas party—a custom design from a jeweler who knew that whatever Jina wore to these events would be photographed, analyzed, and envied by thousands before the night was even over.

The center stone was a deep red, surrounded by a constellation of white diamonds that caught the light like stars. It would look stunning against her skin, against the simplicity of her dress and makeup.

He moved behind her and carefully draped the necklace around her throat, his fingers brushing the delicate line of her collarbone as he fastened the clasp. His gaze lingered on the exposed curve of her neck, the hollow at the base of her throat, the soft swell of her chest just visible above the neckline of her dress.

His mouth went dry.

Last night, he’d had his hands on that chest. His mouth. He’d tasted her skin, felt the way she arched into him, heard the soft sounds she made when he—

Not today.

He pulled his hand back quickly and rested it on her shoulder instead, letting his thumb stroke the bare skin there in a gentle, soothing rhythm.

Only then did a faint smile appear on her face—the sadness lifting just slightly.

“Sorry, Ian.” Her voice was soft. Fragile. “I was just thinking about Yujin…”

Even as she smiled, her voice trembled when she said the name.

Ian could feel it—the weight of her grief, the ache of her longing. It radiated from her in waves, so palpable it pressed against his chest like a physical thing.

He reached for the shawl that had been laid out beside them and draped it over her shoulders. Then he brought her coat and helped her into it, his movements careful, deliberate.

“Then we should go see her soon.” He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, mindful of her makeup. “Yuna’s been waiting to visit too. Shall we?”

Together, they descended to the first floor. Yuna was already waiting, bouncing on her heels with a large bag clutched in both hands.

“Look!” She held it up proudly. “This is everything I collected for Yujin!”

Jina’s smile softened as she crouched to adjust the hem of her daughter’s coat. “Yujin is so lucky to have a sister like you.”

Yuna’s chest puffed out, her grin widening.

The three of them climbed into the car, and the driver pulled away without needing to be told where to go. He knew.

Within minutes, they arrived at Highgate Cemetery, nestled northeast of the city near Hampstead Heath. It was a place known for its famous residents—Karl Marx among them—but to Ian and Jina, it held only one name that mattered.

They stepped out of the car and walked through the quiet grounds with the ease of familiarity. They knew this path. Had walked it countless times.

Soon, they reached a tombstone that stood apart from the others—pristine, carefully tended, never neglected. Behind it rose a sculpture carved from the finest marble: an angel descending from the heavens, her arms outstretched as if to gather a small angel from the earth and carry her upward.

Yuna approached first. She set her bag down in front of the stone and spoke with all the sincerity of a seven-year-old.

“Yujin, we’re here! Sorry we’re late—Daddy was running behind. But I brought all my favorite dolls for you!”

Ian smiled sheepishly at that. Jina took the bouquet from his hands and placed it beside Yuna’s bag, then knelt down in front of the stone.

“Hello, Yujin.” Her voice was soft, reverent. “How have you been?”

Yujin.

The name settled in Jina’s chest like a stone, heavy and familiar.

Yuna. Yujin.

Seven years ago, she had given birth to twins.

Two daughters.

But only one had lived to see Christmas.

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