Chapter 25 Epilogue 3
NINA
The drive was calm and peaceful. Kane's hand rested over mine as we watched the city pass by, with golden sunlight stretching across the skyline. Ezra slept in his carrier behind us, and his soft, rhythmic breathing was the only sound we heard.
“Kane,” I said for the third time, glancing sideways. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
His lips curved slightly. That smug look that always made my heart flutter. “You’ll see. We’re almost there.”
I narrowed my eyes at him but let it go. The last few weeks had been a haze of diapers, midnight feedings, and deep, aching love for the tiny soul we brought into the world. I hadn’t had much time—or energy—to think about surprises.
But when we turned down a quiet street I didn’t recognize, something shifted in the air.
He slowed the car in front of a large gated property. The iron gates opened automatically as we approached, revealing a long stone-paved driveway flanked by blooming white rose bushes and tall, swaying cypress trees. It felt like stepping into a fairytale—secluded, serene, and breathtaking.
And then I saw it.
The building at the end of the drive took my breath away.
It stood tall and proud, two stories of dark stone and soft ivory brick. The architecture was a stunning blend of old-world European charm and modern elegance. Massive arched windows lined the facade, framed in matte black iron with delicate golden details etched into the trim. Climbing ivy wrapped around the left side of the building like a green velvet ribbon, and above the tall double doors carved from rich oak, a sign gleamed softly in the fading sunlight:
NINA’S.
I froze.
My heart stuttered.
“Kane,” I whispered, barely able to form the word. “What… what is this?”
He had already gotten out and come around to open my door. His eyes sparkled with something deeper than pride. “Come see.”
My legs felt like air as I stepped out, too stunned to speak. The building was enormous—magnificent. To the left, a cobblestone courtyard with bistro lights strung overhead and space for outdoor seating. To the right, a glass conservatory-style extension with leafy plants already growing inside. There were lanterns mounted along the pathway, already flickering with soft amber light.
It was… mine. I could feel it in my bones before he even said a word.
He led me up the stone steps, the oak doors opening to a grand foyer. Warm light spilled over polished wooden floors and high-beamed ceilings. Chandeliers hung like constellations, casting a soft glow on the walls. There were touches of black and gold throughout—my favorite colors—woven into the design with elegance.
And the name above the host stand, carved into a brass plate: Chef Nina Calloway.
My knees buckled slightly.
I turned to him, tears already brimming. “You built this?”
He nodded once. “From the ground up. Every inch of it.”
“How long?”
He exhaled softly, brushing his fingers over mine. “Six, maybe seven months. I started the week after you told me—on that rooftop—that you dreamed of opening a place of your own.”
My lip trembled. “That was just a passing thought. I never thought it would… Kane, this is…”
“You thought it was a passing thought. I heard it like a vow,” he said. “So I bought the land the next day. Hired the best team I could find. I wanted to give you something that no one could ever take away. Something that would always belong to you.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
I stepped forward slowly, taking it all in. The kitchen—professional, state-of-the-art, stocked. Shelves lined with spices, tools, and pans already labeled. The dining space was cozy yet grand, with hand-picked furniture, soft textures, and deep jewel tones.
Everything about it was tailored to me.
Even the little things: A coffee bar in the corner, a small library lounge near the front windows, and behind the kitchen—a private garden, with a bench, and a tiny gold plaque that simply read: “For when you need a quiet moment.”
I turned back to him, barely breathing. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Kane whispered. “I just needed you to know that your dreams matter. That you matter.”
He reached down and gently lifted Ezra from his carrier, cradling him between us.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. “You gave me purpose, Nina.”
That night
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when I stood at the front doors of Nina’s, dressed in sleek black with my hair pulled back in a soft twist. My hands trembled slightly as I adjusted the lapel of my blazer. I could hear the gentle hum of music filtering from the dining room and the clink of glasses being set on tables.
The place was glowing.
Lanterns outside cast warm golden light across the courtyard. The ivy-wrapped exterior looked like something out of a romantic dream, and the sign above the door—my name etched in gold—shimmered against the fading dusk.
I took a breath.
Inside, the staff bustled with excitement. The host stand was ready. Waiters moved with practiced grace, adjusting napkins and lighting candles. The kitchen was alive—sizzling, humming, ready to create magic. The scent of warm truffle risotto, garlic-roasted lamb, and fresh baked focaccia filled the air.
I stepped into the kitchen, where the staff paused briefly to nod or smile at me.
“You’re going to be amazing tonight, Chef,” one of the line cooks said, offering a fist bump.
I smiled, feeling the swirl of nerves and exhilaration bubbling just under my skin.
Then Kane appeared.
Dressed in a black button-up, sleeves rolled, eyes warm as he leaned against the doorframe. “Everyone’s arriving. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “What if it’s a disaster? What if no one likes the food?”
He crossed the kitchen in three strides, cupping my face gently. “Your dishes are the best fucking thing I've ever had. I am saying this cause I am one hell of a picky eater. Trust me when I say this, they would love your cooking”
I blinked up at him, tears pricking my eyes. “You always know what to say.”
“Only when it’s about you.” He kissed my forehead. “Now go serve. Don't keep them waiting”
The doors opened at seven.
Tables filled quickly—familiar faces, strangers, food critics, friends. Laila sat near the front, beaming proudly. I even spotted Kendrick sitting next to her, trying to look casual, but clearly invested..
As the plates began to go out, time melted.
I lost myself in the rhythm—the rush of adrenaline, the precision of plating, the heat, the noise, the way the room lit up every time a dish landed and someone smiled. Compliments began floating back through the servers.
“The pasta is divine.”
“This risotto—perfection.”
“Who is the chef? I need to meet her.”
I peeked out from the kitchen once, just to breathe it all in. And there, across the room, Kane stood with Ezra in his arms—our baby boy in a tiny black button-up and suspenders, eyes wide, looking around like he already knew this place belonged to his mother.
At the end of the night, after the last guests left and the staff was winding down, Kane wrapped his arms around me from behind as I stood in the middle of the dining room, staring up at the brass plaque above the host stand.
Chef Nina Calloway.
“You did it,” he whispered.
“No,” I said softly, leaning back into his chest. “We did.”