"Mom cornered me earlier," Jane said. "Asked if Chase and I would consider a joint reception with you and Liam. 'Economies of scale,' she said. I think she’s been watching business YouTube."
Libby snorted. "What did you tell her?"
"That Chase’s mother would have an aneurysm, and also that you deserve your own day." Jane bumped her shoulder. "Even if you did technically already have your day. At City Hall. Without telling anyone."
"We told you. You were literally there.”
"You told me three hours before. That doesn’t count."
"You were my only blood-relation present. That has to count for something."
"It counts for me holding this over your head forever." But Jane was smiling. "I’m glad you’re happy, Lib. Even if Mom needed a week and Helen’s promise to co-plan your reception before she stopped crying."
“Finding out about Chase’s trust fund helped."
"Chase’s trust fund performed miracles." Jane pulled her into a hug. "Now go find your husband. I think he’s hiding from Mom in the kitchen again."
The party wound down slowly, guests drifting away with champagne-warm goodbyes and promises to do this again soon. Linda had to be gently extracted from a conversation about centerpieces with Helen. Mary had found a corner to calculate something on her phone and seemed annoyed to be interrupted. Kitty had spent most of the evening taking photos—the good kind, candids of Jane and Chase, nothing that would embarrass anyone in the morning.
Finally, blessedly, they were alone.
Libby kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the couch while Liam locked the door behind the last of the catering staff. The apartment was quiet again, returned to its normal state: hisbooks on the shelves, her running shoes by the door, two coffee mugs in the sink.
"Survived," she said.
"Barely." He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Your mother cornered me by the bar for twenty minutes. She has opinions about our reception venue."
"She has opinions about everything."
"She suggested a 'winter wonderland' theme. With fake snow."
Libby’s giggle bubbled up from deep within, born of exhaustion and a little too much champagne. “And penguins.” She wiggled her toes to emphasize the offending fuzzy penguin sock, and squealed when he grabbed her ankle to tickle her foot.
Through the window, the city lights glittered against the dark. Across the harbor, the arena shone with victory lights from the Steel’s latest game. Somewhere out there, people were living their normal lives—commuting, working, worrying about bills and deadlines and whether they’d remembered to buy milk. They had no idea that Libby Bennet-Cross was sitting in a penthouse with her husband, wondering how she’d gotten so lucky.
Liam’s hand found hers. His thumb traced over her knuckles, then moved to the ring on its chain at her collarbone.
"Tomorrow?" he asked.
"Tomorrow." She’d wear it on her finger then, where it belonged. Let the world see. But tonight, she just wanted this—the quiet, the privacy, the simple fact of being here with him.
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Mrs. D’Arcy."
She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet apartment. "That’s not my name."
"It’s a little bit your name."
"Bennet-Cross-D'Arcy is a mouthful."
"Hyphenate it. Add more hyphens. I don’t care." He pulled back to look at her, and his expression was soft in a way that still made her breath catch. "You could be Libby Smith and I’d still be embarrassingly in love with you."
"Embarrassingly?"
"Disgustingly. Pathetically. Pick your adverb."
She kissed him—because she could, because he was hers, because after everything they’d survived, this still felt like the biggest miracle of all.
"I love you too." She kissed him again. "Even though you still can't beat me at gin rummy."
