Epilogue
Krystal sat in the dressing room, the layers of her wedding gown spilling around her like spun silk and starlight.
The ivory fabric shimmered under the warm vanity lights, delicate lace trailing over her arms and pooling like soft clouds at her feet.
Her bare shoulders glowed against the satin, her hands nervously fidgeting with the lipstick she'd just dropped.
She leaned forward, reaching carefully—only to freeze when the door burst open with far too much force.
Lorenzo stormed in like a gust of wind wrapped in Armani. “I told you to stop working!” he growled, his voice sharp with concern.
He was beside her in two strides, crouching immediately. His black dress shoes squeaked faintly on the polished floor as he picked up the lipstick before her fingers could reach it. His brows were furrowed, jaw tight, like she’d tried to do something far more dangerous than lean over.
He held the lipstick out to her. “Here. No more bending. No more dropping things. I mean it.”
Krystal blinked at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “I was just picking up lipstick, Lorenzo. I’m not lifting a car.”
“I don’t care,” he said, completely unamused. “You’re pregnant. That means no bending, no lifting, and absolutely zero stunts involving runaway lipsticks. Understood?”
She rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh. “You act like I’m made of glass.”
“My wife is made of glass. Porcelain. Fragile, precious, and glowing. And full of my child,” he said, standing and brushing his hands off like he’d just saved a life.
Her heart softened as she looked at him—Lorenzo, dressed in a three-piece suit that made him look like every girl's fantasy groom, but with eyes only for her.
“We’re not even married yet,” she teased, smirking. “Technically, I’m still just your girlfriend.”
He leaned down, brushing a kiss to her cheek, lingering a second longer than he needed to. His lips moved close to her ear, his voice a murmur wrapped in affection. “Girlfriend. Fiancée. Wife. Mother of my child. All the same. You’re mine, and I’m yours."
She blushed. Then, narrowing her eyes playfully, she added, “Also… you’re not supposed to see me before the wedding. You’re breaking all the rules.”
He didn’t budge. Instead, he dropped down into the chair beside her like he had all the time in the world.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, reaching out to stroke her arm gently.
“I’ve had enough of being away from you last year.
After we divorced, I swore to never let us live separately again.
From now on, you’re going to live in my office if needed. We go home together. Always."
She gave him a flat look. “That’s not romantic. That’s insane.”
“I don’t care,” he said unapologetically. “I’ll build two desks and call it a couple’s package.”
She snorted a laugh with a disgusted face.
He reached out, gently cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking lightly just below her eye. “Don’t make that face,” he murmured, mock-scolding. Then he bent in and kissed her. A slow, lingering kiss that melted her bones and stirred butterflies that hadn’t rested in years.
“Next time you need something picked up,” he whispered against her lips, “you call me. I’ll crawl if I have to.”
She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the suit. Safe. Warm. Home.
Then, after a moment, his voice lowered.
“Baby... I got some news today.”
She lifted her head slightly, her brows drawing together. “What happened?”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “Esther died in jail.”
Krystal’s expression didn’t change. She blinked slowly. “Oh.”
“And Jim apparently went mad after hearing about it. They’ve sent him to an asylum.”
She went still for a beat. Her fingers—resting lightly on his wrist—tightened just slightly, then relaxed again. “Do you want to see her?” she asked softly.
Lorenzo’s answer was instant. “Absolutely not.”
She tilted her head, watching his face.
“She never had anything to do with me. Not really. And she never will.”
Krystal’s shoulders softened with relief. She leaned back against the chair, sighing through her nose. “You’re right.”
His hand drifted instinctively to her belly, gently smoothing the fabric of her gown. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through the ceremony. I’m too excited. I keep imagining you walking up the aisle toward me. Our baby’s going to see himself in all our pictures.”
Krystal chuckled, the sound low and warm. “My bump isn’t even showing.”
“So what?” He leaned close, touching her forehead with his. “I’ll still tell him he was in our wedding. All his classmates are going to be so damn jealous of him.”
She burst into laughter at that, the sound light and full of joy. He pulled her close again, his hand protectively splayed over her lower belly.
***
The garden was bathed in a soft, golden glow, the evening sun kissing every petal and leaf with warmth.
Rows of white chairs lined the aisle, filled with familiar faces, all turned toward the flower-draped altar at the front.
White roses and delicate baby’s breath were woven into every detail—from the archway to the scattered petals along the path—turning the entire space into a living fairytale.
Grayson Moretti, suited in navy with a silver pocket square, sat proudly in the front row. One hand rested on his polished cane, the other casually swirling a glass of champagne as if he hadn’t just threatened to beat someone with the cane two hours ago.
He leaned toward Ana, who sat radiant in a pastel silk gown, her hand laced with Mason’s. “I told that boy not to let her go,” he said with a victorious grin. “Now look at them. Back where they belong. A Moretti never listens until a cane’s involved.”
Ana chuckled, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
Next to her, Mason stretched out, his arm draped loosely around Ana’s chair, scanning the crowd. His expression twitched. “Who gave Triston a microphone?”
Too late.
On a small stage set up beside the aisle, Triston—already buzzed and clearly thriving—was tapping the mic with an unnecessary amount of drama. Darren stood beside him, arm slung around Triston’s shoulder like they were co-hosting a Saturday night karaoke show instead of attending a wedding.
“Testing, testing,” Triston announced grandly, flashing a grin. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have made an executive decision—tonight, I serenade the bride.”
From the far end of the row, Stella groaned into her wine. “Someone take that mic before he and Darren start a boy band.”
Darren, already wobbling on his feet with a champagne glass in one hand and the mic in the other, belted out in a voice that had no business being broadcasted. “Krystaaaaaal, you beautiful glow stick! You’re lighting up Lorenzo’s soooooouuul—”
Gasps. Laughter. Someone snorted champagne through their nose.
Lorenzo, standing at the altar with all the composure of a man barely holding onto his sanity, didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head and said, deadpan, “Darren, I will throw you in the pond.”
Darren grinned with no shame whatsoever. “Love you too, bro!”
Raiden, seated behind Ana and Mason with his arm around Jane, sighed. “Why do we let Triston do anything unsupervised?”
Jane chuckled, resting her head against his shoulder. “Because we’re all secretly addicted to watching this car crash happen in slow motion.”
Across the room, Kara leaned in close to Damion, her wine glass cradled loosely in one hand as she watched the chaos unfold with a spark of amusement in her eyes. “This honestly reminds me of our wedding reception.”
Damion raised a brow, already smirking. “You mean the one where Triston tried to do a backflip and ended up dislocating his shoulder in front of our family?”
Kara laughed, nearly snorting into her drink.
“Exactly.” She bit her bottom lip, trying to stifle another giggle.
After a pause, her voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper.
“Lorenzo’s still pissed at you, isn’t he?
Because of that day Krystal ran to our place to hide and begged us to get rid of him and then came downstairs wearing one of my oversized shirts—half-naked—pretending she’d spent the night with you? ”
Damion chuckled. “Yeah. That stunt nearly gave him a heart attack.”
Kara grinned, eyes twinkling. “He’s still mad at Krystal for that too. Every time someone brings it up, his jaw locks like he’s chewing on broken glass.”
“He can cry a river,” Damion said with a shrug, crossing his arms smugly. “I still get death stares whenever I call him ‘brother.’ It’s practically tradition at this point.”
A few seats down, Sawyer and Ellie were curled into each other like highschool sweethearts. Ellie’s hand was tucked into his jacket pocket while she leaned her head against his shoulder.
She watched Lorenzo fidget at the altar, eyes glossy. “Look at him,” she whispered. “He’s actually nervous.”
“He looks like he’s about to cry,” Sawyer added, grinning.
Christian was lounging beside Ivy, one arm slung over her shoulders, the other feeding her tiny bites of chocolate-covered strawberries.
“Think he’ll pass out before she even gets to the altar?” Christian asked.
“If he doesn’t,” Ivy said dramatically, “I will. I can’t handle how good she’s going to look. Like, my standards for bridal beauty are being rewritten in real time.”
Christian chuckled. “We’ll raise our daughters to crush like this.”
“Absolutely,” Ivy nodded. “Our girls are going to be heart-shattering goddesses.”
Just a few rows behind, Adrian sat in his tailored black suit, legs crossed. His arm was casually thrown over Sienna’s chair, but his sharp eyes weren’t on the aisle.
They were locked on her legs.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Sienna whispered, swatting his thigh.
Adrian leaned closer, voice low. “You shouldn’t have worn that dress. You know what it does to me.”
Sienna rolled her eyes, trying to act unfazed. “We’re at a wedding. Focus on the ceremony.”