The apology is understated. Sincere. This is a woman who takes accountability seriously, who doesn't hide behind excuses or deflection. I respect that about her.
"It's all right, Serena. You couldn't have known." I touch her arm briefly. "None of us could. What Nadiyah was carrying—that kind of grief, that kind of pain—she hid it from everyone. You're not responsible for her choices."
She nods slowly, accepting my words even if I can see she hasn't fully forgiven herself. I understand that too. Some things take time.
"But…" I hesitate. There's something I've been holding inside me all morning. "Serena, I'm sorry, but I can't wear the veil today."
The words hang between us. Her expression doesn't change, but I see the understanding settle in her eyes as I speak.
"Every pearl on that veil was placed by hands that wanted to destroy my happiness." My voice is quiet but steady. "I know it's beautiful. I know the hours of work that went into it. But I can'tcarry that down the aisle with me. I can't wear her hatred on my wedding day."
Serena lets go of a soft breath. "I anticipated as much." She reaches for something behind her. A box I hadn't noticed, with a jeweler's logo embossed on the lid. "Which is why I came prepared."
She opens the lid, and for a moment I can only stare.
Inside, nestled against cream satin, rests a tiara. Delicate, elegant, encrusted with small diamonds. They're not costume. I've spent enough time around Nick to recognize the real thing. The design is classic in a way that transcends trend. It’s the kind of piece that could have been worn a century ago or a century from now. Timeless. Exquisite.
"From my personal collection," she says. "Consider it your ‘something borrowed,’ if you don't already have that covered."
The generosity of the gesture, her thoughtfulness in offering me this gift, makes my eyes sting. "Serena..."
"It would be my honor if you'd wear it today." A small smile curves her lips. "You've become more than a client to me, Avery. I consider you a friend. I hope you know that."
"I do. And, yes, we are friends." Emotion makes my voice thick. "Thank you."
Before the moment can grow too heavy, a small voice pipes up from somewhere near my knees.
"Is that acrown?"
We both look down. Zoe has escaped her mother's grasp and materialized beside us, her dark eyes wide with wonder, her flower girl dress now slightly askew.
"It's a tiara, baby," I tell her, crouching to her level. "Like a princess crown, but smaller."
"Areyoua princess?"
"Today I feel like I am."
She considers this with the gravity only a three-year-old can muster. "Can I have a crown too?"
"Zoe!" Tasha appears, slightly breathless, scooping her daughter up. "I'm so sorry. She's part escape artist, part tiny hurricane."
"It's fine." I'm laughing now, the weight of the previous moment dissolving into warmth. "She's perfect."
The chaos reclaims us. Tasha whisks Zoe away with promises of special flower-girl duties later. Serena returns to her team, the tiara box tucked safely aside. And I let myself sink back into the happy noise of it all, the excited chatter, the laughter, the bright, easy energy of women celebrating together.
This is what I needed. Not the spectacle.This.The warmth of every voice in this room wrapping around me like something I could hold. The coming together of everyone I love.
My hand drifts to the pocket of my silk robe, where earlier this morning I tucked a folded piece of paper. It's a note I found under my pillow last night, left there by Nick after he went out with Beck and Gabe for drinks—at my insistence, because some traditions matter even to a woman who's already secretly married.
He spent the night at a hotel so as not to risk seeing his bride before the ceremony. He thinks superstition is nonsense, but he did it anyway, because I asked. He should be arriving at the church any minute now with Beck and the others.
I pull his note out of my pocket and open it, reading his bold scrawl on the white paper.
Counting the hours until you're walking toward me.
I trace the words with my fingertip and feel the ache spread through my chest—the missing of him, the wanting. We've spent hardly any time apart since the rooftop, these past two days a blur of tender moments and desperate touching and the profound relief of being alive together. His hands on me. Hismouth. The way he held me as though I might disappear if he let go.
I want him now, even though I'm surrounded by all these people. I want his arms around me, his voice in my ear, the solid warmth of his body against mine.
