“You married a rock star,” she says, standing abruptly. “A huge one. Like—everywhere. The eyeliner. The songs. The—” She gestures helplessly at him. “This face.”
Rafe rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed but amused. “Hi.”
She spins on him. “Do you know how many of my friends are obsessed with you?”
He grimaces. “I try not to.”
She looks back at me, eyes blazing now, equal parts awe and outrage. “You could’ve mentioned this.”
“I didn’t think it was relevant,” I say weakly.
She laughs, sharp and breathless. “Not relevant. My brother married a rock star and thought, ‘Yeah, this is fine information to withhold.’”
Rafe chuckles softly. “In his defense, he’s very private.”
She squints at him. “You’re married to my brother.”
“Yes,” he says, smiling now, warmth overtaking the nerves. “I am.”
Her expression shifts suddenly—softening, settling into something genuine. “Well,” she says decisively, “that tracks.”
I blink. “What?”
She shrugs. “You’ve always had stupidly good taste.”
Rafe laughs outright at that.
She reaches for her glass again and raises it, this time higher. “Okay. New toast.”
“Oh God,” I mutter.
“To my brother,” she says, smiling at me. “For somehow managing to pull this off.” Then she turns to Rafe, eyes bright and sincere. “And to you. Welcome to the family. Officially.”
He lifts his glass to meet hers. “Thank you.”
They clink, and I let out a shaky breath.
The world is still complicated. My mom is still furious. The future is still uncertain. But right now, in this room, with my sister laughing and my husband beside me, it feels—just for a moment—manageable.
And that feels like a win.
14
The carpetoutside the suite is thick enough to swallow sound. Everything about this hotel is designed to soften impact—muted footsteps, padded walls, a kind of luxury that pretends nothing truly bad ever happens behind its doors.
It’s not working.
Lindy walks half a step ahead of us, her shoulders squared, jaw tight. She has the key card out already, fingers curled around it like she’s bracing herself. Rafe is at my side, close enough that our arms brush with every step. He insisted on coming. I didn’t want him to—for all the obvious reasons—but I also know I don’t think I’ll survive this without him.
Lindy stops in front of the door. “This is it,” she says quietly.
She swipes the card. The lock clicks, and the door opens. My parents are already inside.
They’re standing, both of them. My father is near the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the city as if he’s memorizing it. My mother stands closer to the seating area, perfectly composed in a tailored blazer, her posture immaculate.
Their focus narrows instantly. Not on me, but on Rafe.
I feel it like pressure against my skin, the way their gazes land on him and linger too long, sharp and appraising. Rafe doesn’t flinch. His shoulders stay relaxed, his chin lifted, his expression neutral in that way he’s perfected over years of dealing with rooms full of people who think they’re entitled to him.
