Sloane looks at me again—direct this time, not through the mirror.
Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. Like she cried everything out, and now there’s nothing left but shaking.
“Is my dress…okay?” she asks quietly.
The question nearly guts me. Because it’s not about the dress.
It’s about control. About doing something right when nothing can be fixed.
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “You look…”
Beautiful dies on my tongue.
She doesn’t look beautiful.
She looks like someone walking into the worst day of her life.
So I finish with the truth that I can survive.
“You look like you,” I say softly. “Just…brave.”
Something flickers in her face—pain, gratitude, exhaustion—all tangled.
Then she nods once, like that’s enough.
Cameron glances at his watch, jaw tight. “We should go.”
Jade and Blakely exchange a look—silent coordination—and Jade steps toward me. “We’ll take our own car.”
Blakely nods. “We’ll follow.”
Cameron doesn’t argue. He just moves automatically into motion, the oldest-son muscle memory kicking in. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Get everyone where they need to be.
Sloane grabs a small black clutch off her dresser like she remembers that’s what you do when you’re a person.
As she steps toward the hall, she wavers—just a fraction.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like the threshold between her bedroom and the rest of the world is a cliff.
I move without thinking, staying close enough that if she falls apart, I’m there.
She glances up at me.
My hand hovers at her elbow—question, not demand.
She doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t lean in either.
But she lets me walk beside her.
We file down the hallway like a procession before the real one.
Past Pops’s shut door.
