Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gabrielle
Ten Months Later
Julian was warm against my chest, his tiny body curled into mine as if he still wasn’t convinced the world beyond my arms was real. He nursed quietly, one of his fingers hooked around the edge of my robe, and I watched the rise and fall of his breath like it was the only thing anchoring me in place.
In some ways, it was.
Everything around us—the soft rocking chair, the freshly painted nursery just beyond the open door, the distant murmur of voices in the grand room downstairs—felt like a dream I’d slipped into and hadn’t quite woken from.
A year ago, I was dodging headlines and foundation board members. I was staying up late with Juliette in a two-bedroom apartment, eating takeout on the floor and pretending everything would work out.
Now, I lived in a mansion with a baby named Julian, a man I loved, and a wedding dress hanging from the closet door.
A soft knock preceded the sudden, unmistakable sound of Juliette flinging the door open with zero regard for volume or dramatic timing.
“Gabrielle!” she hissed, her heels clicking across the hardwood like punctuation marks. “Judge Valencia and his wife just arrived. They’re here. Early. To officiate.”
I didn’t look up.
“They’re in the living room. Anthony’s charming them like some sort of preppy prince, and you —” she flailed a perfectly manicured hand toward me “—you’re still up here in your robe, breastfeeding like this isn’t the most romantic day of your entire life.”
I raised an eyebrow, shifting Julian a little as he snuggled deeper against me.
“Some things,” I said calmly, “can’t be hurried.”
Juliette made a sound that might’ve been a groan. Or a growl. “Okay, yes, fair, he’s perfect. But your hair is not .”
I smiled down at Julian. “Go be a good hostess. Pour them some wine. Offer them food. I ordered enough to feed the entire coastline.”
Juliette huffed, tossing her perfume-scented curls over one shoulder as she turned to inspect my wedding dress. It hung from the closet door in its own soft glow—simple and elegant, with delicate lace around the neckline and a train long enough to make me nervous.
She adjusted the hanger, smoothing the bodice like it was already on me.
“You’re going to look like a freaking queen,” she said softly, her tone shifting as she stepped back to admire it. “Like something out of a painting. One of the good ones. Not that creepy Flemish stuff.”
I snorted.
She walked back over and kissed the top of Julian’s fuzzy little head, then patted a stray hair of mine back in place.
“I’ll be back in ten to take the baby and zip you into your magic dress. Don’t move until then—or at least don’t move far.”
“Deal.”
As the door clicked shut behind her and her heels disappeared down the hall, I looked down at Julian again and whispered, “You hear that? I’m marrying your daddy today.”
He sighed, content, and I let the silence settle back around us like a second skin.
Julian had finally drifted off, full and content, swaddled in the bassinet beside my chair. I’d barely finished fastening the clasp of my nursing bra when the bedroom door flew open like a scene change in a Broadway play.
Juliette stood in the doorway, breathless and glowing, eyes wide like she’d just seen the face of a god.
“I just met Damian,” she announced, both hands in the air like she needed them to carry the gravity of her statement. “And oh my god , Gabrielle. That man is carved from marble and dipped in sin.”
I turned, stifling a laugh. “You’ve known him for three minutes.”
“Long enough,” she declared. “His suit is custom—Italian, obviously. His eyes? Ocean-blue with a splash of something reckless. And his jawline could end wars. Don’t even get me started on what’s going on under that shirt. The man has abs that were probably chiseled while he brooded over the stock market or a mysterious past.”
“I see we’re keeping things subtle today.”
Juliette ignored me completely, floating over to the closet where my dress still hung. She touched the fabric with reverence, then turned back toward me with that particular glint in her eye that always meant trouble—or wine.
“Unfortunately,” she added, “he’s very engaged in Louisa’s company at the moment. She’s smarter than all of us and dressed like she knows it. I'm not saying I’ve lost. I’m just saying it’s halftime, and she’s up by twenty.”
“I thought you told me once she was in a relationship,” I pointed out gently.
Juliette grinned. “Tactical error on my part…but he didn’t come with her.”
She moved back toward me and reached for the dress. “Alright, let’s do this. Time to put the queen into her gown.”
I stood carefully, smoothing my robe before slipping my arms out of it. Juliette helped me step into the dress, her hands fast and practiced, zipping me up like she’d done it a thousand times before. The fabric hugged me like a secret—it felt cool against my skin, weightless, and rooted all at once.
Juliette stepped back and let out a breath.
“You’re glowing,” she said, eyes wide. “Like, glowy glowing. Like, how-is-this-my-sister glowing.”
I turned toward the mirror.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize myself.
The woman in the reflection had soft waves pinned behind one ear, a delicate veil trailing over one shoulder. Her dress flowed like watercolor silk. There was no hint of chaos in her eyes. No echo of fear or guilt or imposter syndrome.
Just… calm. And a quiet sort of joy.
It hit me then—that this was the kind of moment I’d stopped believing I’d ever deserve. A new beginning dressed in white. Not because everything had gone perfectly but because we’d made it through the imperfect parts together. Because love had shown up when I wasn’t sure it would. And stayed when I least expected it.
Juliette appeared behind me in the mirror, adjusting the veil with gentle fingers.
“You good?” she asked.
I nodded, eyes still locked on the woman staring back at me.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m really good.”
I could hear them before I saw them—clinking glasses, low conversation, a burst of laughter from someone who’d clearly had a second pour of champagne. The atmosphere was soft and joyful, the way I imagined home might sound if you distilled it into a single room.
I stepped out of the hallway and into the grand room, where everyone had gathered. The hush was immediate.
Anthony turned before anyone else did. His eyes locked on mine like I was gravity itself.
And then he smiled.
He crossed the room in long, sure strides, stopping just short of touching me, his eyes sweeping from my face to the hem of my gown and back again.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “And I’m a man who knows art.”
Laughter bubbled from somewhere near the fireplace, and I glanced toward the source. Judge Valencia was grinning, one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of his wife.
“Under the circumstances,” he said warmly, “I’d have waited all day for this.”
I smiled at him, touched by the sincerity in his tone and the pride in his expression. After everything—the scandal, the vault, the hearings—he hadn’t just supported us. He’d rooted for us.
His wife stepped forward then, a tall, elegant woman with silver curls and a discerning eye. She paused beneath the mantle, tilting her head as she looked up.
“ A Lady and Gentleman in Black ,” she said. “It’s good to see it where it belongs.”
I followed her gaze to the painting—restored, reframed, and finally at peace. A part of history reclaimed.
She turned toward Anthony and me with a smile. “I’ve had my eye on The Circus Rider , actually. The Devereux Gallery could use the funds, and it would look stunning in my husband’s study.”
A ripple of polite laughter moved through the group.
Anthony leaned toward me and murmured, “She’s not wrong. It would look better than all that sports memorabilia he insists on hanging.”
Before I could respond, the judge cleared his throat, already walking toward the fireplace with gentle authority.
“Well then,” he said, gesturing for everyone to join him. “Let’s gather round. It’s time to marry these two very patient people.”
The guests slowly fell into place—some with glasses still in hand, others brushing crumbs from their sleeves, one of the interns from the gallery snapping a quick photo before being elbowed by someone more polite.
It was casual. Light. Unscripted. Perfect.
As I took Anthony’s hand and stepped into place in front of the fireplace, I caught a glimpse of Juliette just off to the side.
She was trying, with visible effort, not to gawk at Damian, who stood tall and perfectly relaxed near the French doors. He looked unfairly good in a navy jacket and open-collared shirt, his arms crossed, listening intently to Louisa explain something about tax incentives for galleries that donate rescued art to nonprofit museums.
Louisa gestured with one manicured hand, completely at ease. Damian nodded, his expression polite—but there was a flicker of something amused in his eyes like he knew exactly what was going on behind Juliette’s flustered attempts at indifference.
I smiled to myself.
This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a beginning.
And in the most unexpected way, it was starting to feel like more than mine.
The ceremony was short and sweet—exactly how I wanted it.
Juliette was holding Julian when he stirred during the vows, letting out the tiniest whimper, just as Anthony was promising to honor all my favorite takeout orders for life. Everyone laughed, and Anthony—without missing a beat—leaned down and pressed a kiss to our son’s forehead, then mine.
It was casual, intimate, nothing like the perfectly rehearsed ceremonies I used to watch in glossy event videos with envy and disbelief. This was real. Messy. Warm. Unscripted. Ours.
When the final “I now pronounce you husband and wife” rang out from Judge Valencia’s steady voice, the room erupted in soft cheers and clapping. Anthony pulled me close, kissed me slow and certain, and the world narrowed to just the two of us—again, still, always. “Thank you for rescuing my broken heart. I love you,” he whispered before kissing me again.
I felt my eyes sting as Juliette, who’d somehow managed not to cry until now, swiped at her cheeks with a silk handkerchief that probably belonged to Damian. (He didn’t seem to mind.)
It was only when we stepped back and raised our glasses that Damian cleared his throat and held his own high.
“To Mr. and Mrs. Moreau,” he said, his voice smooth but clear enough to carry over the clink of crystal and the rustle of guests. “And if no one objects, I’d like to invite everyone aboard The Oracle —my new yacht—for a sunset cruise to celebrate their marriage.”
Juliette, mid-sip of champagne, choked.
“You have a new yacht?” she squeaked, lowering her glass with both hands like she suddenly didn’t trust gravity.
Damian’s mouth twitched. “Well. Newish. It’s not the same one you remember.”
Someone laughed—then everyone did.
The judge raised his brow. “I officiate a wedding and get a sunset cruise? This might be my favorite case on record.”
As the room began to stir and guests filtered toward the patio doors that led down to the dock, I felt Anthony’s arm slip around my waist.
“You good?” he asked, his lips brushing my temple.
I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder, watching as Juliette very intentionally fell into step beside Damian. Louisa followed behind them, eyebrow arched, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
I smiled.
Somewhere in the swirl of faces, toasts, and stories still being told, I caught a glimpse of myself—not in a mirror, but in the soft reflection of how people looked at me now. Not just as a gallery assistant. Not just as the woman caught in a scandal. But as someone who had rebuilt everything from the inside out. A partner. A mother. A wife.
I thought about the nights in that tiny apartment with Juliette, the sleepless hours, the impossible decisions. The moment I thought Anthony was nothing more than another mystery I couldn’t afford to chase.
Now I had everything I never let myself imagine. Not because I’d followed a plan—but because I’d followed my gut.
The salt breeze caught the edge of my veil as we stepped out onto the deck, the last of the sun painting the sky in hues that didn’t seem real. The Oracle bobbed gently at the dock, sleek and extravagant, its polished nameplate catching the fading light.
Anthony carried Julian’s baby seat in one hand, cradling it as if it were made of glass. Our son slept soundly, utterly unbothered by the buzz of champagne and celebration around him. One of the gallery staffers trailed just behind us, carrying the overstuffed baby pack—diapers, blankets, wipes, and enough pacifiers to last through a small apocalypse.
People laughed and toasted as they made their way aboard. Someone popped another bottle of champagne. I heard Juliette’s unmistakable laugh as Damian held out a hand to help her up the steps.
Anthony looked down at me.
“Still sure?” he asked softly.
I grinned up at him, slipping my fingers through his.
“More than ever.”
This wasn’t the life I expected. But somehow, it’s the one that fit. The one that chose me back and I could never be happier.