Epilogue

EPILOGUE

ONE MONTH LATER

Xavier

H enry was dead. Had been for four whole days.

He held on a bit longer than the doctors thought he would, but a week ago, he was pronounced brain dead. And after that, once the ventilators were detached, he died peacefully in his room at Corbray Hall.

Now I sat in the office, waiting for the lawyers to come and clear up the remains of Henry’s will, but also trying to determine who would be a useful steward if and when I decided to leave. I never wanted to play the duke, but here I was, having left Jagger to run the Parker Group while I was up to my neck in portfolio analyses and tenant bills and the infinite other small businesses that kept the estate and the Parker net worth running.

I hated it. And now it had become my life.

I stared up at the burnished walnut walls, outfitted with fancy woodwork, some kind of tartan wallpaper, and mini portraits of every duke there had been in the estate’s history, all looking at me down their long English noses. My heavy bag hung still in the corner, unused for several weeks.

It was odd. Generally, I needed an outlet for my anger, but since Francesca left, it was as though she’d taken it with her. Anger and love for me seemed to walk a thin line. Both were based in passion, I supposed. And everything I’d felt passionate about had either died or gone back to New York.

God, I hated this room. Every time I was in it, someone died or was about to die, or wanted to die (if they were me, anyway).

It was here I’d first learned that Lucy had passed, informed by Father, with a smirk on his face. Like he knew it meant the inevitable, that I’d crack and marry Imogene Douglas and carry on the Parker line just as he wanted.

Then, years later, when Henry told me Rupert was gone, and I’d packed up and left for good, intent on never returning at all.

And again, when the nurse crept in to inform me that it was time for Henry to go.

Dead, dead, dead.

There was a knock on the door, and I perked up, ready to put on a slightly less miserable face for the lawyers.

Instead, Imogene Douglas walked in.

I frowned. “Imogene. I wasn’t expecting you.”

She shrugged and shut the door behind her. “I know. It’s just, I was about to leave for London, you see. The summer’s over, and I’ve got that job at Sotheby’s, if you remember.”

I shook my head. I didn’t remember. But then again, I hadn’t seen the girl in nearly a month, and at that time, it had been balls-awkward when she’d tried to kiss me, and I’d nearly chucked her across the room.

Daughters of viscounts do not care for rejection. I learned that fact with a very hard slap across the cheek.

“I know it’s been uneasy between us,” Imogene said. “But I wanted to check on you after hearing about Henry. We haven’t seen you since?—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I told her. “It’s in the past.”

“Yes, but?—”

“Imogene,” I cut her off.

“I know ,” she said, rounding the desk to come sit on it next to me. “I’m not going to talk about the event. From before. I wanted to make sure you’re all right before I go.” She glanced at my computer screen and clearly caught the title in the email. “Is that from her? After all this time? Good lord, she really does not deserve you, does she?”

“ Imogene .”

Something in my voice must have scared her because she got up immediately and went to sit in one of the club chairs on the other side of the desk.

I sighed. “Look, it’s simple. You tried to kiss me, I pushed you off, and that was that. Forgotten. Done. But my business with Francesca is between me and her alone. Now, I’ll thank you not to say another word about the mother of my child, all right?”

Imogene swallowed visibly. She really was a pretty girl. Nice enough, too. I could admit that, at least. But not at all my type, which was a small basket of curves that spoke frankly with a faint Bronx accent.

Imogene would make some bloke happy enough one day. It just wouldn’t ever be me.

“Oh—okay, yes. All right.” She stood. “If there’s anything I can do?—”

“I’ll let you know,” I told her. “The service will be in two weeks, in case you want to come.”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sure Mummy and Papa will let me know the details. Xavier, I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

I nodded. “I appreciate it.”

And I did. But it wasn’t her kind wishes or words or anything else I wanted right now. It was the woman who was currently five thousand miles away and wanted nothing to do with me anymore.

My God, what I wouldn’t give to see her sweet smile right now. To feel those deft fingers on my temples, neck, and shoulder. To feel her lush curves under my own touch.

Francesca really was more than a beauty. She was a refuge. And I’d burned down the whole thing.

Imogene left, and I stared at the email for a long time.

It was the first I’d heard from her in a long time. We sent texts here and there, usually just updates about Sofia or, on my part, requests to FaceTime my daughter. She was growing so bloody much. Could already pronounce her r ’s and l ’s perfectly. I was missing it all.

From my perspective, then, an email was more than just a check-in. It could only mean one thing: something bad.

“Man up, Sato,” I told myself. “It’s just a fucking letter.”

Still, I waited. Until, finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the email…to find nothing.

No note. No “Dear Xavier” or any kind of signature. There was only an attachment, which I quickly downloaded and opened to reveal a photograph of a handwritten letter.

Messy and drafted on a wrinkled sheet of lined yellow paper, it looked like it had been crinkled up and tossed more than once before she’d finally got the nerve to take the picture and send it herself.

Very strange. Not that I didn’t like looking at Francesca’s elegant handwriting that looked somewhere between script and print. But it wasn’t exactly a normal way to communicate.

I squinted, then expanded the screen so I could read the words properly.

Xavi—

Elsie called this morning to let us know about Henry. Please accept our deepest condolences from me and Sofia. She misses you very much but understands this is a terrible time. I did not have the privilege of knowing the man well myself, but I know you cared for him, and so he must have had a lot of something good to merit that.

I am so, so sorry for your loss.

I’m also sorry to have to complicate your life even more right now. But unfortunately, this can’t wait. Because I refuse to repeat the same mistakes. You deserved better then, and you deserve better now.

You were right. I’m not the same girl you met five years ago. I can’t be. It’s why I left London. It’s why I came home to New York. It’s why I wouldn’t stay to fight. It’s also why I won’t run from the truth anymore, even when it’s hard.

So, here goes. The truth. Do with it what you like. Or nothing at all. I honestly don’t expect anything, but you need to know, from the beginning, this time.

Xavi, I’m pregnant.

If you want, you can

I don’t expect anything, but

Next time you’re in New York,

Nope, that’s it. I’m pregnant. I’m keeping it because if there is one thing in the world I know I can be, it’s a good mom. At least this time, I have a bit of practice.

And yes, of course, the baby is yours. It could have only ever been yours.

All my love,

— Frankie Francesca Ces

TO BE CONTINUED

in LAST COMES FATE, coming June 2023)