Relief hits his face first. Then joy. Then something so bright it almost breaks him open.
He stands, slides the ring onto my finger—simple, elegant, perfect—and pulls me into his arms.
Behind us, the restaurant door bursts open.
Drew whoops. My dad swears, a huge smile on his face. Elizabeth claps. Someone inside cheers.
Mr. Pickles, somehow having escaped supervision, lets out a loud, indignant meow like he wants credit for this entire development.
Sebastian laughs against my hair.
I laugh when he spins me around, then grabs me and kisses me until I don’t remember my name.
Later, when the night winds down and we’re back home, I curl against him on the couch, my head tucked against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat finally slowing. Mr. Pickles is wedged between us like a furry seal of approval.
Sebastian’s hand is warm where it rests over mine. Over the ring.
“Last year, I almost lost you,” he murmurs.
I tilt my head up, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “But you didn’t.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s finally allowing himself to believe that.
The insanity defense didn’t work. Silas is locked away for decades.
But trauma doesn’t follow court schedules.
I close my eyes, surrounded by love, safety, and the strange, beautiful family we built out of chaos.
I wouldn’t change a damn thing.
EPILOGUE: SEBASTIAN
The backyard hums with the low murmur of people we love, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the faint clink of glasses from the table Elizabeth insisted on decorating. String lights glow between the trees like they’ve always belonged there.
I stand beneath the arch, hands clasped in front of me, breathing in slow counts of four.
Drew stands beside me, best man by default and by blood. He leans in just enough to murmur, “If you pass out, I’m not catching you. Just want that on record.”
“I’m not passing out,” I say.
He hums. “You look like you might.”
Elizabeth is across the yard, calm and radiant in a way that makes it impossible to believe she was once the center of Ivy’s dad’s worst decisions. Now she’s Ivy’s maid of honor, smiling like she knows exactly how this ends—and has known since the day she met us.
At my feet, Mr. Pickles sits in a tiny, deeply offensive tuxedo harness, a satin ribbon looped around hisneck with the rings tied securely in place. He looks like he hates everyone equally.
The officiant clears his throat, and the music starts.
“Here Comes the Bride” drifts across the yard, soft and familiar.
I straighten, my eyes on the patio doors.
Ivy’s dad steps out first.
Alone.
My heart stutters.
