One Year Later
The bridal suitesmells like hairspray, setting powder, and nerves.
Olivia is behind me, adjusting the fall of my veil for the third time, even though it hasn’t shifted. “You are glowing.”
“I’m sweating,” I correct.
“You’re glowing because you’re about to marry a rich, devastatingly handsome doctor who is obsessed with you.”
I look at her through the mirror. “Stop,” I warn. “We just finished my makeup. You don’t get to make me cry.”
She grins. “I’m just saying. You finally got the rich husband you always joked about wanting.”
I tilt my head slightly, examining myself. “That was never actually a joke. It was a prayer.”
She snorts a laugh and smooths my hair again.
The gown is structured silk, fitted through the waist before cascading into clean lines that make me look taller, steadier. The neckline is elegant, but not demure. It frames my collarbones in a way that feels intentional.
“And I just so happen to be madly in love with him,” I say softly.
Olivia makes a dramatic choking sound behind me. “There it is. That’s the line that’s going to ruin the eyeliner.”
I blink hard. “No crying.”
“You almost cried.”
“Youalmost cried.”
She laughs at the accusation and moves around me, kneeling to fluff the skirt one last time. “Do you ever think about how insane the past year was?”
I let out a slow breath. “Every day.”
The masquerade. The revenge that spiraled into something real. The babies. The confession in a hallway. The wedding that nearly imploded. The hospital drama. The long, slow rebuild.
“We almost didn’t get here.”
“You two are chaos,” Olivia replies fondly. “But the good kind.”
I smile. “Chaos is no longer the goal of my life. Now, I just want to be a good wife and mother. And enjoy bits of chaos here and there, because you don’t get to be a wife and mother without it.”
She stands and looks at me again in the mirror. “You deserve this.”
I swallow. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Good.”
I turn in my seat. “I said, stop trying to make me cry.”
She presses her lips together to suppress a smile. “Fine. I’ll just say this—you look like a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.”
That part feels true.
“Besides, if we get in the weeds about who deserves what, then I would never be marrying Damian.”
“He’s lucky to have you?—”
Someone knocks on the door. Three sharp raps.
