Chapter 243 THE ARCHITECT OF PEACE [THEO AND SERAPHINA]
EPILOGUE ONE.
SERAPHINA’S POINT OF VIEW.
The sound of child-like shrieking, followed by a deep chuckle, greets me as I walk into the large painting room. Theo is on his knees, a paintbrush and a paint palette in both hands, while our three-year-old son, Leo, makes long gashes on his face with yellow paint. I chuckled, the sound hearty and warm as I watched them.
The contrast with my architect husband, my mischievous son, and my quiet daughter was nothing to be missed. Leo focused on his painting, or rather disfiguring of his daddy’s face, while our daughter, Anne-Marie, focused on her paintings in a coloring book Theo made for her.
When Theo informed me of his decision to venture into painting six months after our wedding, I hadn't known or expected what to come out of it. Now, he was easily one of the best in the world, his only rivals our twins.
"Leo, I think Daddy has enough sunshine on his nose," I said, walking further into the sun-drenched studio. My son was obsessed with the color yellow, along with the sun. Part of me realized it was because of his crush on Sloane. He would latch onto her hair even as a child, leaving an angry Lucien on his tail. Both of them bickered so many times, you’d think Leo actually had a chance at stealing Sloane from Lucien.
Theo looked up, and the sight of him made my heart do that familiar, fluttering dance. One of the most sought-after architects in the country, a man who designed skyscrapers and sanctuaries with surgical precision, following his heart's desire after months of thinking. Once Phillip was out of the picture, he realized as much as I had that he could do whatever he wanted without any questions or someone else breathing down his neck.
Especially since he dropped the royal title, and the crown no longer had responsibilities for him, Theo felt, for the first time in his life, truly free. Well, now, he isn’t so free since our son had him on his knees, and was currently focused on using him as a human canvas. There was yellow paint in his hair and a streak of blue across his jaw, but his eyes, once so haunted and hollow during our years in Westridge, during our first weeks together, were brimming with a peace so profound it was almost holy.
I smiled at my husband, the small hands and feet of our babies left prints all over the studio room; something Theo and I agreed never to have cleaned. Each step was smaller than the last; one for each year of their lives until the end of time.
"He says I’m unfinished, Phina," Theo joked, his voice a low, melodic rumble. He didn't move, staying perfectly still so Leo could continue his masterpiece. "Apparently, I’m missing a lightning bolt on my forehead so I can resemble a perfect Superman."
I knelt beside him, resting my hand on his shoulder. Under the soft cashmere of his sweater, his muscles were relaxed. The tension he used to carry, the constant horseman readiness, mixed with the terror Phillip struck into him, led him to strike or defend, had melted away into the grace of a father, a husband, and a lover.
"And you, my quiet angel?" I leaned over to Anne-Marie. She didn't look up immediately; she had Theo’s terrifying focus. She was meticulously shading a rose in the coloring book Theo had hand-drawn for her, featuring all the places they wanted to take her: Paris, Venice, the Amalfi Coast.
"The petals need to be pink, Mama," she whispered, her tiny brow furrowing. "Like the ones in the garden."
"They’re beautiful, sweetheart," I murmured, kissing the top of her head. I stared at my family, my heart full of joy and wholeness. We were chaotic, but passionate at the same time. And honestly, I would not have it any other way. The sound of laughter, shrieks, and playful yelling as Theo and I play with our babies fills the air, moving into the walls as we stare into our forever.
Our bliss… our family.