I feel Charity consider it. Feel her weigh the past against the possibility of the future. This is the moment—she could walk away, justified in her anger. Or she could extend grace she doesn't owe.
"Small steps," Charity finally says. "No grand gestures. No pretending the past didn't happen. But… maybe coffee sometime. Without the three-fork test."
Her father has the decency to look ashamed. "That was poorly done."
"It was meant to humiliate him." Charity's voice firms. "To prove he wasn't good enough. But he is good enough, and you'll need to accept that if we're going to have any relationship at all."
"Ican see that he makes you happy," Mrs. Pembroke says quietly. "I can see that you… glow when you look at him."
"Because I love him." Charity says it simply, matter-of-factly. "And he loves me. That's non-negotiable."
"Understood." Her father extends his hand to me. I stare at it for a moment—the same hand that served me that humiliating dinner, that tried to prove I wasn't worthy.
Then I shake it. Firm, brief.
"I'll take care of her," I say.
"She doesn't need taking care of," he replies, and there's the faintest hint of pride in his voice. "She's proven that quite clearly."
Charity laughs, surprised and genuine. "Was that almost a compliment?"
"Your sculpture is extraordinary," he says instead of answering directly. "Your mother and I would like to purchase the smaller piece in the corner. If it's available."
"The one titled 'Breaking Free'?" Charity's smile turns wicked. "That one's particularly expensive."
"I would expect nothing less."
We talk for a few more minutes—careful, polite conversation that doesn't dig too deep. They ask about Lucky (fully recovered, spoiled rotten). They mention maybe coming to one of my performances (I won't hold my breath). They awkwardly inquire about our apartment (small, perfect, none of their business).
When they finally leave, citing another engagement, Charity sags against me.
"Holy shit," she breathes. "Did that actually just happen?"
"You were magnificent." I kiss her temple, breathe in the scent of her. "Fierce and kind and completely yourself. I'm so fucking proud of you."
"They actually apologized. Sort of."
"Progress." I turn her to face me, cup her face in my hands. "You stood up to them. Set boundaries. Demanded respect. That's everything."
"I couldn't have done it without you."
"Bullshit. You're the strongest person I know." I kiss her softly. "You just needed to remember it."
She pulls back, eyes shining. "You know what the best part was?"
"What?"
"When my mother asked if we were struggling financially, and you had that look on your face—like you were about to laugh but holding it in."
I grin. "I've stolen bread from nobles who had less than I have in my account right now. The irony was too good."
"We really are doing okay, aren't we?"
"Cara, we're doing better than okay." I gesture to the sculpture, to the gallery full of people admiring her work. "You're a celebrated artist. I'm performing magic that makes people believe in wonder. We're living in Manhattan, together, happy. That's not just okay. That's fucking miraculous."
She kisses me then, right there in the middle of the gallery. Deep and thorough, not caring who sees. When we break apart, several patrons are staring. I flip them a casual salute.
"Want to get out of here?" I ask. "I know a food truck that makes incredible tacos."
