A Vow Written in Starlight
The travel from The hotel loading dock and a chaotic chase through the kitchen to The roof of Griffith Observatory at sunset, overlooking Los Angeles consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
# Chapter 7: A Vow Written in Starlight
The Griffith Observatory perched on the southern slope of Mount Hollywood, its white art deco domes catching the last orange rays of a November sun. Valentin Voss stood at the edge of the roof, one hand resting on the balustrade, watching Los Angeles sprawl toward the Pacific in a haze of smog and possibility.
Behind him, the western terrace had been transformed. A simple white arch stood against the skyline, wrapped in wildflowers—sagebrush and California poppies, jasmine and lavender. No chairs. No altar. Just open space and the sound of wind moving through the canyons below.
Quinn adjusted the collar of her navy dress, checking her watch for the third time. “You know, when you said ‘private ceremony,’ I assumed a courthouse.”
“Courthouses have cameras.” Cole stood near the entrance to the roof, his posture relaxed but his eyes tracking every movement—old habits from a life he’d promised to leave behind. “The Whitmore trial ended three weeks ago. The media still circles.”
“Let them circle.” Valentin turned from the view. The bruises had faded months ago, but something had settled in his bones—a quiet certainty that hadn’t been there before. “They won’t find anything worth printing.”
Cassidy’s car pulled into the parking lot below. He recognized the sound of the engine, the particular way she tapped the brakes twice before parking. Eight years apart, and still he knew the rhythm of her.
Jace climbed out first, his hair longer now, curling over his ears. A new school. A new name—Valentin had insisted on legally changing it, severing the last thread connecting Jace to the Ashford lineage that had nearly destroyed them. The papers were filed under seal, the records scrubbed clean by a judge who owed Valentin a favor from a documentary he’d produced about judicial corruption.
“Dad!” Jace spotted him on the roof and broke into a run, taking the exterior stairs two at a time.
Valentin caught him at the top, lifting him off his feet. At eight, Jace was solid, growing into the frame he’d inherited. “You’re late.”
“Mom couldn’t decide between two necklaces.”
“She always does that.”
“She picked the one with the blue stone. She said it matches your eyes.”
Valentin set him down, his throat tight. “She said that?”
“Can I see the telescope after? Quinn said the observatory has a real one. A refractor. Twelve inches.”
“Twelve-inch Zeiss. We’ll ask if Dr. Kim can give us a tour.”
Jace’s face lit up with the particular joy of a child promised a window into the stars. He ran to Quinn, who scooped her into a hug despite her earlier protests about wrinkles.
And then Cassidy crested the stairs.
She wore the necklace Jace had mentioned—a simple silver chain with a lapis lazuli pendant that caught the fading light. Her dress was the color of cream, calf-length, practical shoes she could stand in for hours. Her hair was down, as it had been the night they’d met in a cramped editing bay at USC, both of them arguing about the correct cut for a documentary about migrant farmworkers.
She looked at him, and the world contracted to the space between them.
“Quinn told me what this is,” Cassidy said, stopping a few feet away. “She’s terrible at keeping secrets.”
“Quinn’s terrible at everything except loyalty.”
“I thought we were just celebrating. The production company launch. The trial ending.”
“We are celebrating.” Valentin reached into his jacket pocket. “Among other things.”
The box was simple—black velvet, unadorned. He’d spent three months searching for the right ring. Not because he couldn’t afford something extravagant, but because extravagance had never suited them. The first time they’d dated, back in their twenties, they’d split the cost of pizza and called it a date night. They’d edited footage until three in the morning, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. They’d built something from nothing, and then he’d destroyed it with a single phone call.
“You don’t have to do this,” Cassidy said, her voice catching. “We’re already partners. We’ve already started the company. Jace already has your name.”
“I know.”
“So why—”
“Because I should have asked you eight years ago.” He opened the box. The ring was elegant in its restraint—a band of recycled platinum, a single diamond no larger than a grain of rice, flanked by two tiny sapphires. “I was afraid. Of Silas. Of what would happen if I tried to fight. Of what would happen if I failed. And I let that fear make decisions for both of us. I let it steal eight years of Jace’s childhood. I let it steal eight years of your life.”
“Valentin—”
“I’m not proposing marriage.” He said it quickly, before he could lose his nerve. “Not yet. Not officially. I know we need time. I know Jace needs time. But I want to promise you something that doesn’t require a license or a ceremony or a piece of paper from the state.”
Cassidy’s hand came up to cover her mouth. Her eyes were wet.
“I want to promise that I will never run again.” He took the ring from the box, held it between them. “That I will never choose safety over you. That every project I produce, every story I tell, every decision I make from this day forward—I’ll ask myself one question first: Does this bring me closer to Cassidy and Jace? And if the answer is no, I won’t do it.”
The wind carried the scent of sage and asphalt, the distant hum of the city below.
“Then the ring?” she asked.
“It’s a placeholder. A reminder that I’m yours, whether or not you choose to become mine in return. The sapphires are for Jace. The diamond is for every year we lost. Wear it or don’t. It’s your choice. But I needed you to know that I’m done being afraid.”
Cassidy stared at the ring for a long moment. Then she laughed—a broken, beautiful sound that cut through the evening air.
“You absolute idiot,” she said, and stepped into his space.
She kissed him like she was claiming territory. Like she was rewriting the ending of a story that had gone wrong. Like she had waited eight years to do it, and she wasn’t going to waste another second.
Jace made a gagging noise from somewhere behind them. “Mom, gross.”
Quinn shushed her. “Let them have this, kid. It’s been a long year.”
When Cassidy finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her mascara slightly smudged. “Put it on me.”
Valentin’s hands trembled as he slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly—he’d stolen one of her old rings from her jewelry box months ago, had a jeweler match the size.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, turning her hand to catch the light. “It’s perfect.”
Behind them, Cole cleared his throat. “The legal documents are ready, if you want to do the official part.”
Valentin had prepared a second document—a formal declaration of paternity, a will naming Jace as his sole heir, a trust fund that would ensure the boy could attend any university in the world. He’d had it drawn up the day after the battle at the Whitmore estate, when the bruises were still fresh and the fear was still raw.
“I want Jace to sign it,” Valentin said. “As a witness.”
Jace looked up at him, suddenly serious. “Is this the thing where if something happens to you, I get all your stuff?”
“It’s the thing where if something happens to me, you get everything I have. Every story I’ve ever told. Every camera I’ve ever owned. Every penny I’ve ever saved. It all goes to you and your mother.”
“What about the production company?”
“Also yours. Quinn and Cole will run it until you’re old enough to decide what you want to do with it.”
Jace considered this with the gravity of an eight-year-old who had already learned that the world could be cruel. “Okay. I’ll sign it.”
Cole produced a folder from inside his jacket, the pages already tabbed and marked. Valentin knelt on the concrete roof, setting the document on his knee, and guided Jace’s hand to the signature line.
“Right here,” Valentin said. “Your full name.”
Jace signed with careful precision: Jace Ashford-Voss. The name they’d chosen together, a bridge between two families, a declaration that he belonged to both worlds.
Cassidy signed next, her hand steady. Then Quinn, then Cole, both as witnesses.
The sun had nearly finished its descent, leaving behind a bruise of purple and gold across the horizon. The first stars were appearing—faint pinpricks of light that would multiply into a galaxy.
“One more thing,” Valentin said, reaching into his other pocket.
He pulled out a photograph—old, creased, worn at the edges. A picture of three people standing in front of a weathered farmhouse, squinting into the camera. His mother, Teresa Voss. His father, Miguel. And a young girl with braids and a gap-toothed smile.
“Your sister?” Cassidy asked softly.
“Elena.” He’d never told Jace about her. Had never told anyone, really, except Cassidy in the early days. “She died when I was twelve. Pneumonia. We couldn’t afford the hospital.”
Jace took the photograph, studying it with the intensity of a child who understood that images could hold secrets. “She looks like me.”
“She had your smile. Your stubbornness. She used to follow me around the house, asking questions about everything. Why is the sky blue? Why do birds fly south? Where do stories come from?”
“Where do stories come from?” Jace asked.
“From people who refuse to let the truth die.” Valentin folded the photograph and placed it in Jace’s hand. “I want you to keep this. As a reminder that we’re building something for her, too. For everyone who didn’t get a second chance.”
Jace tucked the photograph into his pocket, patting it twice to make sure it was secure. Then he looked up at the sky, where the stars were beginning to assert their presence.
“Dr. Kim said the telescope is best after full dark,” he said. “Which is in like, seventeen minutes.”
Cassidy laughed, swiping at her eyes. “You counted?”
“I checked the sunset time on my watch. Civil twilight ends at 5:47. Full dark at 6:12. It’s 5:59 now.”
“Thirteen minutes,” Valentin said.
“Faster if we take the stairs.”
They moved as a unit—Valentin and Cassidy walking close enough that their shoulders brushed, Jace running ahead with Quinn, Cole bringing up the rear. The observatory’s main doors were still open to the public, but Dr. Kim had arranged a private viewing in the east dome, away from the crowds.
Jace reached the dome first, pressing his face against the glass of the viewing window. “It’s huge.”
“Twelve-inch Zeiss refractor,” Dr. Kim said, emerging from the control room. “Built in 1935. Still the best public telescope in Southern California.” She glanced at Valentin. “Your father called ahead. Said you had questions about the rings of Saturn.”
“Dad, did you know Saturn has rings?”
“I may have read a few articles.”
“Seventy-three confirmed moons,” Jace said, already climbing into the viewing chair. “They keep finding more.”
Valentin hung back as Dr. Kim adjusted the telescope, showing Jace how to focus the eyepiece. Cassidy came to stand beside him, her ring catching the dim light of the dome.
“Thirteen minutes,” she said.
“Thirteen minutes of peace.”
“We should do this more often. The quiet thing.”
“We should.” He slipped his hand into hers. “Starting now.”
They watched Jace for a long moment—their son, leaning into the eyepiece, his breath fogging the lens, his voice rising with excitement as Saturn’s rings came into focus.
“Mom, you have to see this,” Jace called. “It looks fake. Like a painting.”
Cassidy squeezed Valentin’s hand, then moved to join her son.
Quinn appeared at Valentin’s elbow. “You did good,” she said quietly. “For a guy who spent eight years hiding from his own shadow.”
“I had help.”
“Damn right you did.” She punched his shoulder, just hard enough to sting. “Don’t make me regret it.”
She walked away before he could respond, joining Cole near the door. Valentine watched them exchange a look—not romantic, but comfortable. The look of people who had survived something together and come out the other side.
—
An hour later, they emerged onto the observatory’s front lawn. The city sprawled below them, a carpet of lights stretching to the ocean. The air had cooled, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and dust.
Jace was still vibrating with energy, recounting every detail of what he’d seen. “The moons were tiny, like little dots, but Dr. Kim said Titan has an atmosphere. An actual atmosphere. That’s like having weather on a moon.”
“Maybe we’ll go there someday,” Cassidy said.
“People can’t go to Titan. It’s too far.”
“Then we’ll build better rockets.”
Jace considered this. “That would take a long time.”
“We have time, kiddo.”
They settled on a bench near the west terrace, overlooking the city. The traffic on the 101 was a ribbon of red and white, flowing south toward the harbor. The Santa Monica mountains were dark silhouettes against the last glow of the horizon.
Valentin sat on one side, Cassidy on the other, Jace in between. The boy leaned against his mother, his eyelids growing heavy.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Cassidy said. “You’ll miss the best part.”
“Best part of what?”
“The end of the day.”
They sat in silence, watching the lights flicker on across the basin. One by one, the neighborhoods of Los Angeles illuminated—Echo Park, Silver Lake, Koreatown, downtown. The city was a living thing, breathing light into the darkness.
A streak of white cut across the sky, fast and bright.
Jace’s eyes snapped open. “Did you see that?”
“A shooting star,” Valentin said. “Make a wish.”
Jace closed his eyes, his lips moving silently. When he opened them, he turned to Cassidy.
“Make a wish, Mom.”
Cassidy weaves her fingers with Valentin’s. “I already have everything I wished for,” she whispers, as the city lights flicker to life below.