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EPILOGUE: STAR

SIX MONTHS LATER

It’s hard to believe my wedding day is finally here. Here I am standing in the corner bedroom of the Carrington ranch house, wearing my dream wedding dress, and wishing I’d gone a size up in Spanx because I can’t feel my toes.

The bedroom smells like sun-warmed cedar and linen sheets, with just a whiff of anxiety sweat rising from the space between my ribs and the boning of the dress. Morning light pours through the old lace curtains, painting lacy patterns across the honeyed floorboards and the piles of bags, shoes, and cosmetic debris strewn everywhere. Outside the window, I hear the soft bellow of cattle, the hush of wind through live oaks, and, somewhere in the distance, the yip of a deranged Chihuahua who cannot believe he’s been left out of this part of the party.

I tug at the dress bodice for the hundredth time. It’s a little dramatic for a girl who spent her formative years in rainbow tank tops and cutoffs, but Maggie and Saoirse staged a full-blown bridal intervention, and now I’m encased in ivory silk and miles of tulle. My arms float at my sides because I’m terrified of creasing the fabric, or worse, sweating through it.

“Don’t pick at it,” Maggie says, wrestling with my hair from behind. “The more you fuss, the more nervous you make me. Stop. You look amazing. Hold still.”

I try to hold still. I really do. But my feet keep shifting, heel-toe, heel-toe, like I’m about to launch into a stress tap-dance.

Saoirse, sitting cross-legged on the bed, grins at me over the rim of her mimosa. “You’re going to wear a rut in the floor if you don’t chill. Also, you should know your boobs look phenomenal in that dress. I’m freaking jealous as hell.”

Maggie pauses, hands full of my hair, and shrugs at me in the mirror. “She’s not wrong.”

I glance down, then back at the mirror. The dress is pretty gorgeous. Sleeveless, with a deep V and subtle netting that keeps things PG-13 but still manages to make my upper half look like an ad for some fancy French perfume. For the first time in my life, I actually have cleavage, and not even the strategic kind that relies on duct tape and a prayer.

I look back up at Maggie. “Is it too much?”

Maggie’s face softens. “Star, there’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when you’re marrying a Carrington. You could show up in a feather boa and pasties, and no one would blink.”

Saoirse snorts mimosa through her nose. “Actually, that might be a little much. Star looks perfect as she is.”

The nervous energy in my chest collapses into a wild giggle. Maggie gives my hair a final spritz and steps back, proud. She’s done a twisty, romantic thing with my hair that looks Pinterest-worthy but somehow not like I’m pretending to be someone else. I reach up gingerly to touch it.

“Don’t mess!” Maggie hisses.

I freeze. “Sorry. It just… doesn’t feel real yet.”

“Oh, it’s real, baby cakes,” Saoirse says, swinging her feet off the bed. “You want your bouquet now or wait until you’re almost at the back door?”

“Now,” I say, because having something to do with my hands feels crucial.

She crosses the room and hands me a bouquet of bluebonnets, white poppies, tiny yellow wildflowers, and a few sprigs of rosemary. The arrangement is perfect, loose and wild, a hundred percent me. I clutch it in front of my stomach and stare at the mirror.

My skin is almost glowing, partly from the million products Maggie slathered on me, partly from the fact that my insides feel like they’re running on pure adrenaline. I tilt my head side to side, studying the way the veil catches the light, the way the silk clings and flows, and I know I’m finally ready.

I catch Saoirse’s eye in the mirror. “Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

Saoirse rolls her eyes. “You look like you, but, you know, extra. Which is exactly what today’s supposed to be.”

Time seems to stand still in the old bedroom, minutes melting together in a haze of nervous jokes and wildflower perfume and Maggie yelling, “NO TOUCHING YOUR FACE!” every sixty seconds. I watch as Saoirse re-applies her lipstick for the fourth time and Maggie obsessively checks her phone for the group chat updates from the “groom’s suite.”

“They’re fine,” Maggie mutters, peeking at her phone. “Cole already spilled whiskey on his tie, Silas is making jokes about monkeys in suits, and Hudson’s keeping an eagle eye on the time.”

A soft, dignified knock on the bedroom door nearly scares me out of my skin. For a second, the three of us freeze in place.

Then the door cracks open and Hudson Carrington himself appears, filling the doorway in a black tuxedo and a level of composure that would impress a Secret Service agent. He’s shaved, for once, and his tie is a beautiful pale pink.

He surveys the room, looking like a fish out of water.

“Star,” he says, “they’re ready for you.”

My heart flutters hard as my knees threaten to buckle.

“Oh, boy,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else. “Let’s do this.”