I stand at the mirror for one more moment. Darya on one side, my mother on the other. The three of us reflected in the glass, and for the first time in years, I look like I belong in the picture.
"Ready?" my mother asks.
"Ready."
My dad appears at the door and clears his throat, “It’s time, darling,” he says, stepping into the room. “You look like an angel.” I can’t stop the tears from welling when I see the look on his face, it’s somewhere between pride and awe and it makes me so much more grateful to Rafferty for dealing with Kyle, so I got to have this moment with my dad. Now he never needs to feel shame when he looks at me.
We sit in the limousine together with Iris, who is already like a big sister to me. And when we arrive, she leads the way with Darya and my mother, allowing me to have a final moment with my dad.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” he says. “I need you to know that there’s nothing you could do that would make me feel otherwise.”
My eyes narrow on their own before I can mask my suspicion. But he squeezes my hand and says something he hasn’t said since I was a child.
“You were my first, golden and bright. No matter what, it’ll all be alright. So close your eyes and make a wish, then let it come true with a hug and a kiss.”
Then his kisses my cheek and offers me his arm, and we turn towards the garden where I’m about to begin the rest of my life.
The garden is glowing.
Late autumn light pours through the trees that line the path, turning every leaf into stained glass. White chairs arranged in rows on either side of the makeshift aisle. Candles shimmer in glass holders along the edges, flickering despite the daylight, because Iris insisted and nobody argues with Iris about aesthetics.
The guests are a blur. Connected families, Bratva allies, faces I half recognize and faces I don't. But the front rows are clear. Sharp. My people and his, side by side.
Katya is in the second row, wedged into a chair that Killian positioned at the end so she can stretch her legs. Her belly is enormous beneath a deep red dress and her hand rests on top of it like she's cradling the baby through the fabric. Killian stands behind her chair, one hand on her shoulder, his face softened to something almost gentle as he watches her.
Grace is beside Katya with baby Lorcan in her arms. He's so full of character, almost one year old and dressed in a tiny suit. Grace bounces him gently on her knee. Liam is at the end of the row, watching his wife and son with an expression that makes me understand exactly why Nadia Semakina is about to become Nadia Orlova. This is what this family does. They love fiercely, protectively, completely.
Tanya sits next to Grace, her hair pinned up, Aidan's hand resting on her thigh. She catches my eye down the aisle andsmiles. A warm, knowing smile. Welcome to the family, it says. You're going to love it here.
Connor is in the row behind with Anya. He's leaning back in his chair with his arm stretched across the back of hers, his scarred face tilted toward her as she whispers something that makes him grin. The woman the Baron tried to take. The woman Connor married instead. Looking at them now, settled and easy and completely absorbed in each other, it's hard to imagine anyone ever tried to pull them apart.
My family is on the other side. My mother in the front row, clutching a tissue she's already used twice. Timofey beside her in a suit that's slightly too big in the shoulders, his permanent grin temporarily replaced by something suspiciously close to emotion. Darya is next to him, dabbing her eyes with her fingertips and pretending she isn't.
Saoirse is in the front row on the Orlov side. Silver streaked, dark auburn hair pinned up, a soft lilac dress, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She's been crying since the chairs were set out, according to Iris, and she shows no signs of stopping. Her last son getting married in the garden she planted when the children were small.
And at the end of the aisle, Rafferty.
He's standing with his hands clasped in front of him, and the second I appear at the top of the path, his whole body changes. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. His eyes lock onto mine and everything else falls away. The guests, the garden, the candles, the autumn light. All of it dissolves until there's only him and me and the thirty feet of ground between us.
My father is beside me. His arm is looped through mine, steady and strong. He pats my hand.
"I told you," he murmurs. "I had a good feeling."
"You were right, Dad."
"I know." He smiles. His eyes are wet. "I'm always right. Don't tell your mother I said that."
We walk. The aisle isn't long but it feels endless and instant at the same time. Every step brings Rafferty closer and every step makes the knot in my chest loosen a little more. I watch his face as I approach, but he doesn't smile. He does something better.
He looks at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
My father places my hand in Rafferty's and steps back. Rafferty's fingers close around mine. Warm, solid, the knuckles still faintly bruised beneath the skin. Healed enough. Strong enough.
"Hi," I whisper.
"Hi." His thumb traces a circle on the back of my hand. "You're beautiful."
"You keep saying that."
