Chapter 43 Avery
AVERY
The penthouse sounds like a flock of extremely well-dressed, beautiful birds has taken up residence in my living room.
"—need more pins over here—"
"Zoe, sweetie, don't touch that—"
"Did anyone see where I put my mimosa?"
I'm perched in the center of the large space on a barstool in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, held captive by two women from my favorite salon who’ve come to do my hair and makeup.
One of them carefully works a large-barrel curling iron through my hair while the other applies soft blush to my cheekbones.
All around me, the comforting chaos continues. Voices overlapping, laughter punctuating instructions, the organized warmth of a dozen women preparing a bride for the day she's been dreaming about.
My wedding day.
I had only the slightest bit of nausea this morning, and now it's long passed. A small mercy, and one I'm silently grateful for as I sit still and let myself be transformed.
Mom perches on a nearby chair, her own hair and makeup already complete.
She looks lovely, so elegant and pampered, it makes my throat tight.
Her silk robe matches mine, and her eyes are soft as she watches the proceedings.
Every few minutes, her gaze finds mine. She doesn't say anything.
She doesn't have to. The quiet pride on her face says everything.
Across the room, Tasha is a vision in wine-colored silk, the autumn-hued gown we chose together draping her curves beautifully. She's also, at this moment, engaged in negotiations with a three-and-a-half-year-old terrorist.
"Zoe Marie Lopez, if you don't stop spinning, you're going to knock over Aunt Avery's makeup—"
"But I'm a princess!"
"You're a princess who's about to be demoted to court jester if you don't stand still."
I laugh behind my hand, and Tasha gives me an eye-roll. Zoe's flower girl dress—dusty rose, frothy and precious—flares as she twirls anyway, her black patent Mary Janes gleaming in the filtered morning sunlight. Tasha catches her mid-spin, hoisting the squealing hellion onto one hip.
Near the breakfast spread, Eve and Kat have their heads together, champagne flutes in hand, their voices low and conspiratorial. Eve catches me looking and her grin sharpens, mischievous and amused.
"We're just discussing how Nick's going to react to the honeymoon lingerie pieces," she says, not bothering to lower her voice. "I'm taking bets on whether he makes it through the first night without tearing them off you."
"My money's on no," Kat adds, giving me a wink. "That man has 'feral' written all over him, especially where you're concerned."
A flush warms my skin even as I laugh. "You're both terrible."
"Terribly accurate," Tasha agrees, raising her glass to the others.
Lita is sprawled across the chaise near the windows, already dressed for the wedding in a sleek black dress that shouldn't work with her rebellious hair color but somehow does. She looks incredibly pretty, which I'd never say to her face because she'd murder me.
"For the record," she announces to no one in particular, "I still think we should've done the bachelorette party. There's an all-male revue in Atlantic City that comes highly recommended."
"We'll do something after," Tasha says, shifting Zoe to her other hip. "When things are more settled."
Lita snorts. "Define 'settled.' Because between the near-death experience and a surprise pregnancy, I'm starting to think 'settled' isn't in this crew's vocabulary."
Her list is missing one more item: secret elopement. But that's something I'll share with her another day. For now, I just want to sink into the comforting familiarity of having all these women close to me while I prepare for this day.
I catch Lita's eye and shake my head, laughing. It feels good to be able to smile after everything that’s happened these past weeks. Today, all of that is behind me. I’m only looking forward now.
In the corner of my vision, Serena's team from House of Delaire moves like an elegant pit crew.
Yuki adjusts the gown on its padded hanger, while at the same time Clara and Sofia prepare the steamers.
Serena stands apart from her team, overseeing, her signature blonde bob sleek and perfect even at this early hour.
She catches my eye. A subtle gesture: Can we speak?
I nod.
When I rise from the barstool, the makeup artist makes a small sound of protest, but Serena's already moving toward the quieter corner near the hallway, and I follow.
The noise continues around us—Zoe's giggles, Eve's laughter, Lita calling for more mimosas—but this moment feels separate from the happy buzz of activity. Solemn.
"Avery." Serena's voice is measured, professional, but something softer runs beneath it. "I need to say something before we go any further today."
I wait.
"What happened with Nadiyah—" She pauses, her slender jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Remorse dims her gaze. "She was my employee.
I should have sensed something was wrong with her, and I didn't. The fact that you were put in danger because of someone under my supervision.
.." She meets my eyes directly. "I'm deeply sorry. "
The apology is understated. Sincere. This is a woman who takes accountability seriously, who doesn't hide behind excuses or deflection. I respect that about her.
"It's all right, Serena. You couldn't have known." I touch her arm briefly. "None of us could. What Nadiyah was carrying—that kind of grief, that kind of pain—she hid it from everyone. You're not responsible for her choices."
She nods slowly, accepting my words even if I can see she hasn't fully forgiven herself. I understand that too. Some things take time.
"But…" I hesitate. There's something I've been holding inside me all morning. "Serena, I'm sorry, but I can't wear the veil today."
The words hang between us. Her expression doesn't change, but I see the understanding settle in her eyes as I speak.
"Every pearl on that veil was placed by hands that wanted to destroy my happiness." My voice is quiet but steady. "I know it's beautiful. I know the hours of work that went into it. But I can't carry that down the aisle with me. I can't wear her hatred on my wedding day."
Serena lets go of a soft breath. "I anticipated as much." She reaches for something behind her. A box I hadn't noticed, with a jeweler's logo embossed on the lid. "Which is why I came prepared."
She opens the lid, and for a moment I can only stare.
Inside, nestled against cream satin, rests a tiara.
Delicate, elegant, encrusted with small diamonds.
They're not costume. I've spent enough time around Nick to recognize the real thing. The design is classic in a way that transcends trend. It’s the kind of piece that could have been worn a century ago or a century from now. Timeless. Exquisite.
"From my personal collection," she says. "Consider it your ‘something borrowed,’ if you don't already have that covered."
The generosity of the gesture, her thoughtfulness in offering me this gift, makes my eyes sting. "Serena..."
"It would be my honor if you'd wear it today." A small smile curves her lips. "You've become more than a client to me, Avery. I consider you a friend. I hope you know that."
"I do. And, yes, we are friends." Emotion makes my voice thick. "Thank you."
Before the moment can grow too heavy, a small voice pipes up from somewhere near my knees.
"Is that a crown?"
We both look down. Zoe has escaped her mother's grasp and materialized beside us, her dark eyes wide with wonder, her flower girl dress now slightly askew.
"It's a tiara, baby," I tell her, crouching to her level. "Like a princess crown, but smaller."
"Are you a princess?"
"Today I feel like I am."
She considers this with the gravity only a three-year-old can muster. "Can I have a crown too?"
"Zoe!" Tasha appears, slightly breathless, scooping her daughter up. "I'm so sorry. She's part escape artist, part tiny hurricane."
"It's fine." I'm laughing now, the weight of the previous moment dissolving into warmth. "She's perfect."
The chaos reclaims us. Tasha whisks Zoe away with promises of special flower-girl duties later.
Serena returns to her team, the tiara box tucked safely aside.
And I let myself sink back into the happy noise of it all, the excited chatter, the laughter, the bright, easy energy of women celebrating together.
This is what I needed. Not the spectacle. This. The warmth of every voice in this room wrapping around me like something I could hold. The coming together of everyone I love.
My hand drifts to the pocket of my silk robe, where earlier this morning I tucked a folded piece of paper.
It's a note I found under my pillow last night, left there by Nick after he went out with Beck and Gabe for drinks—at my insistence, because some traditions matter even to a woman who's already secretly married.
He spent the night at a hotel so as not to risk seeing his bride before the ceremony. He thinks superstition is nonsense, but he did it anyway, because I asked. He should be arriving at the church any minute now with Beck and the others.
I pull his note out of my pocket and open it, reading his bold scrawl on the white paper.
Counting the hours until you're walking toward me.
I trace the words with my fingertip and feel the ache spread through my chest—the missing of him, the wanting.
We've spent hardly any time apart since the rooftop, these past two days a blur of tender moments and desperate touching and the profound relief of being alive together.
His hands on me. His mouth. The way he held me as though I might disappear if he let go.
I want him now, even though I'm surrounded by all these people. I want his arms around me, his voice in my ear, the solid warmth of his body against mine.
Counting the hours.
I'm counting too.
"All right, gorgeous." The makeup artist's voice breaks through my reverie. "Time for the dress."