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Epilogue
Emerson
I’d marry Daphne on the beach in the middle of winter. I’d marry her on the front porch. Or in the middle of a barren desert. Anywhere, really. It’s art wherever she stands.
So I don’t really mind her brother’s church.
It was a process to get here. We had to attend classes with the priest for reasons that remain unclear to me. And then there was the planning.
Daphne is the first Morelli daughter to get married, which meant press coverage.
I’m the same person I’ve always been, which meant rehearsing all the parts of the day in advance. Multiple times, so a goddamn panic attack doesn’t halt the ceremony.
Both my brothers stand with me at the front of the church. Daphne’s brothers, too. Lucian escorted their mother to her seat in the front row, then joined us. Her sisters and sisters-in-law come down the aisle one by one. She wanted to be surrounded by everyone she loved for our wedding, and her wish has come true.
Personally, I don’t love the crowd, but that doesn’t matter.
I’ll do anything for her.
“This is a lot,” Sin mutters as Leo’s wife steps up and into the line. “An entire fucking family. Sure you don’t want to cut and run?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him. “And don’t swear in the church.”
The priest pretends not to hear.
“I’m never doing this,” Sin says. “I’m so fucking happy for you, but over my dead body. No wedding vows. No forevers. No happily ever afters.”
Will, who’s standing on his other side, says nothing.
I expect him to agree, and hastily, but…
He doesn’t.
He cuts a glance at me. “What?”
Will doesn’t talk about the people he sees except in brief, vague descriptions. Hair colors. Eye colors. They never seem to last very long. I assumed he didn’t particularly care. But as he looks out over the full church, over Daphne’s sisters making their way to us, he’s quiet. His expression is contemplative. Almost as if he’s thinking of himself standing in my place instead.
I wonder who he pictures coming down the aisle.
Maybe I’ll ask him at the reception, which will be immediately after the ceremony. We’re having it at the Met. Daphne suggested having it at home. There are too many guests for that. Too much decorating to be done. Too many changes to be made. The Met is the perfect compromise, because it’s already decorated with some of the best art in the world.
And once Daphne’s in the building, the collection will be complete.
The music changes, and though we’ve practiced for this, walked through it at least three times, my heart stops. This is it. She’ll be bound to me with wedding vows and forevers and happily ever afters. Even waiting a few seconds feels like too long.
The doors at the back of the church open.
There she is.
My little painter.
My mind sears the sight of her in her wedding dress into its own sunlit gallery. Holy fuck, she’s beautiful. The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. And in that dress. To marry me. Her veil falls over her dark hair like a translucent wave. Like a blessing.
She’s absolutely beaming.
Bryant Morelli escorts her down the aisle. Light from the stained-glass windows brushes over both of them. The color touches her gently, reverently, and it’s all I can do not to step down from the altar and go to her.
Thank god there will be photos of this moment. She’s living art to me now.
