Epilogue - Dex

On its first day of trading, Wolff Holdings traded up as much as twenty percent. No surprise given that the book—the list of investor requests for stock allocations—went from five times covered before Max went on the road to ten times covered by the time the corporate roadshow ended.

That shouldn't be much of a surprise either.

Think about it.

The guy got me, the most closeted, judgemental dick in the history of queerness, to kiss him within two hours of meeting him.

He was always going to charm the pants off every investor he met.

Bottom line: Max is now revoltingly rich—on paper, at least—and even more arrogant than he was when I met him, and I'm disgusted with myself at how much of a turn-on the latter is. Darcy and I are both total sluts for arrogant, power-hungry arseholes, it turns out.

And when said arsehole is, behind closed doors, the most tender, passionate, relentlessly caring partner you could ever fathom, it's impossible to resist him.

In all seriousness, he's earned every ounce of his success and I burst with pride at every sight of him, which is a lot, because his handsome mug is everywhere. It turns out, this pride of ownership, this pure delight of hearing colleagues and clients and the press marvel at what a force of nature Max Hunter is and knowing he can't sleep at night unless he's curled up around you?

It's a feeling nothing could have prepared me for. And, as news of our relationship spreads across the City, I come in for my fair share of handshakes and back-slapping. It's so unexpected and so delightful that I suspect Max may have done the impossible: bubble-wrapped my coming out by folding it into the narrative of the IPO, so I'm automatically protected. I'm endorsed by association; I'm Max Hunter's guy, and he's the man who's made every institutional investor's Q4 performance numbers look pretty fucking stellar, and if the industry darling loves me, then I'm okay by everyone else.

I'd be na?ve to think it will always be like this, or that there isn't nasty or homophobic or jealous vitriol doing the rounds, but I can't shake the idea that, however upsetting and difficult I found it to come out to my father, I've got away lightly.

I'll add it to the long list of things for which I'm indebted to Max, and, when the fear that I'll never be able to repay him and Darcy for saving me and loving me and accepting me and pushing me and every other fucking thing threatens to overwhelm me, I'll remind myself of my favourite truth: that they love me for me, and my very existence is repayment enough.

‘Is it okay?'Max barks at Darcy for the tenth time. ‘Are you happy with it?'

She laughs that gorgeous, tinkling laugh to which we're addicted and, to her credit, doesn't sigh at his repetition. ‘It's the most stunning thing I've ever, ever seen in my life.'

He frowns down at her, and I can tell he's trying to hold in the emotion. ‘You clearly haven't been looking in the mirror enough.'

‘Oh my God, stop it!' she cries, turning to me in time to see me shake my head in quiet amusement, because he's good. ‘How are Dex and I supposed to cope when you're this adorable? Right?'

‘That was smooth, even for you,' I tell him, because someone's got to keep him humble. ‘Must be the white tie, making those sweet nothings slip off the tongue like honey.'

‘Fuck off,' he says, but he's grinning now, and Darcy's squishing his cheeks.

‘It's incredible,' I tell him honestly. ‘Even if it comes with, er, conditions. You did good.' I glance behind me at the brutish security guard standing outside the open door of our bedroom.

Max has twisted God knows how many arms tonight, in that way of his so charming that the poor jewellers weren't even aware of it, and borrowed an eight-figure diamond necklace from Chopard for Darcy to wear to the Wolff Holdings gala tonight. It's so valuable, it comes with its own ear-pieced guard.

It's his way of making up for the fact that she wouldn't let him buy her a new dress. He was all for Darcy showing up on our arms in couture, but she insisted on wearing her custom Givenchy number from Gen's wedding. Max wasn't impressed—he said the press would pick up on the fact that she'd worn the same dress at both events—and she argued that was precisely the point.

‘You don't get chances more public than this to send the message that it's more than okay to rewear clothes, especially things this timeless,' she told him.

Even Max couldn't argue with that.

Hence the necklace, to "show the dress in a new light" (his turn of phrase).

Whatever. I didn't have the privilege of knowing Darcy then, or of dancing with her under a French sky while Santiago Vale crooned onstage. I didn't have the privilege Max had, but I still wonder that anyone could ever get enough of Darcy looking like this. She could wear it every day and still take my breath away each time.

Her hair is up in a chic, messy arrangement, piled on top of her head in russet coils with tendrils framing her face. Those huge blue eyes of hers look even more arresting than usual tonight, courtesy of the dark, smoky makeup ringing them. The hair and makeup team Gen recommended has certainly made the most of her devastating assets.

As for the dress itself, it's downright sinful, with all that sea foam silk adorning her breasts and arse and draping low at the back. It's simultaneously the classiest and sexiest thing I've ever seen, and I'm bursting with pride already.

There's comingout to your family, and there's disclosing your relationship to your boss and Compliance department, and there's getting slowly, awkwardly used to your private life being public knowledge across the City, and then there's this—walking the red carpet outside the Savoy Hotel before pausing with Max and Darcy to pose for photos in front of the backdrop featuring The Wolff Foundation's logo.

We arrive right behind Gen and Anton. Once they've cleared the photo area, we stand together, Darcy looking every inch a movie star, her looks eclipsing her pale green silk and diamonds. Max and I flank her, our arms around her waist. We're both in white tie tonight, in accordance with the dress code, only he's wearing custom Tom Ford and I'm in custom Lanvin.

It's not just the financial press here tonight. Every fucking society page in the UK, and plenty from across the pond, are represented here. The sea of lenses assembled in the quiet side street leading up to The Savoy is pretty fucking intimidating.

Within a few hours, anyone who cares will be able to take their pick of features about us, from the financially focused (the success of Wolff's IPO and Max's speculated net worth) to those celebrating the fact that there is finally an openly queer CEO at the helm of one of the UK's biggest companies and, inevitably, the snide right-wing commentaries questioning how the fuck we three deviants dare flaunt our perversions so brazenly and speculating on the moral demise of this once-great country.

I take a particular satisfaction from knowing that our smiling faces will greet my still-furious father from the neat stack of morning papers when he walks through the lobby of his investment firm tomorrow morning.

Max's arm rests just above mine along Darcy's back, and it strikes me how anchoring his touch is. How right this symmetry feels—Darcy in the middle, resplendent in her finery, and us guys flanking her in almost identical tuxedos, all three of us radiant with happiness.

The Rule of Three.

We understand its power from childhood, long before we're capable of analysing why it's so potent. Three is the magic number in storytelling. Oration. In any form of communication required to pack a punch. From Obama's rhetoric to the Three Little Pigs and the three-act story structure, the number three satisfies and regales and inspires.

So why the hell it's taken me this long to embrace, or even accept, the love the three of us share as the perfect foundation for a life built on happiness and truth, I have no fucking clue.

Max and I share a glance, a smile, over Darcy's head. It's fleeting, but in this moment, I understand everything he needs me to understand. How much he loves us both. How proud he is. How much it means to him to have Darcy and me here tonight to support him publicly.

It helps that he's told me all this over and over.

I have no way of knowing this right now, but these poses, offered up to the baying crowd of paparazzi, won't be the ones that make the majority of tomorrow's front pages.

Rather, the tabloids and broadsheets alike will pay up for a candid shot by one of Getty's photographers snapped during the champagne reception.

In it, Max has his arm tightly, possessively, around Darcy's shoulders. She's ravishing and directing her smile off camera while chatting animatedly to Gen and Anton.

But he's not looking at her.

He's leaning in towards me, brushing his lips lightly over my cheek. My eyes are closed in bliss. I must only have shut them for a second, but the photographer has captured that exact, flawless moment.

A moment that looks to this man like the most accurate depiction of perfect happiness he's ever seen.

It's a photo that will one day end up in pride of place, next to our favourite shots of our wedding day and our children, on the mantlepiece of the big white villa in Holland Park that Max will insist on buying. He'll insist later this evening, in fact, when we've all collapsed in our suite at the Savoy after too much dancing and he's pulled up the listing on his iPad.

He'll tell us that, as soon as he saw it, he knew it was the home the three of us would grow old in together.

THE END