Epilogue
Ingrid
Two weeks later.
Valentine's Day.
My wedding day.
I stand in front of the mirror in the room that used to be mine, staring at a woman I almost don't recognize.
Not because of the bruises this time.
Those have faded to nothing—just faint yellow shadows that disappeared days ago.
No, I don't recognize myself because I look happy.
Radiant.
Like a bride.
Like someone who's about to marry the love of her life.
Mom's wedding dress fits like it was made for me.
The alterations took a week, but the result is perfect.
Vintage lace with a sweetheart neckline.
Long sleeves that taper to points at my wrists.
A flowing skirt that brushes the floor when I walk.
Classic.
Elegant.
Timeless.
Just like the woman who wore it almost thirty years ago.
"Oh, baby girl."
I turn to find Mom in the doorway, her hand pressed to her mouth, tears already streaming down her face.
"Mom, you promised you wouldn't cry until the ceremony."
"I lied." She crosses to me, cups my face in her hands. "You're so beautiful. You look—you look—"
She can't finish.
Just pulls me into a hug, careful not to wrinkle the dress.
"You look just like I did," she finally manages. "When I married your father. Standing in front of that same mirror, terrified and excited and so in love I couldn't breathe."
"I'm not terrified."
"No?"
"Okay, maybe a little terrified."
She laughs through her tears. "That's normal. That's good. It means you understand how big this is."
The door opens again and Astrid slips in, already dressed in her maid of honor gown—a soft dusty rose that complements the wedding colors perfectly.
"How's the bride—oh my god." She stops dead. "Ingrid. You look incredible."
"You think?"
"I know." She comes closer, circling me slowly. "The dress is perfect. The hair is perfect. Everything is—" She stops. "Wait. Where's Grandmother's veil?"
Mom's eyes go wide.
"I put it—I had it right—"
"Mom."
"It was in the bag. The garment bag. I'm sure I—"
"Mom."
"Don't panic. Nobody panic. I'll find it."
She rushes out of the room, nearly colliding with Vail in the doorway.
Gunnar's mother steadies herself, laughing. "Everything okay?"
"Mom lost the veil," Astrid reports.
"She didn't lose it. She misplaced it. Temporarily." I take a breath. "It'll turn up."
Vail crosses to me, her smile warm and genuine. "You look absolutely stunning, sweetheart. My son is going to fall apart when he sees you."
"You think so?"
"I know so. He's already a nervous wreck. Hakon had to talk him out of coming up here three times."
I laugh.
It feels good.
Normal.
"Where are Kira and Evelina?" I ask, noticing the absence of Gunnar's younger sisters. "I thought they were helping with setup."
"They're with Vanir. He's keeping them entertained so they don't drive everyone crazy before the ceremony." Vail rolls her eyes affectionately. "Those two have been bouncing off the walls all morning. You'd think they were the ones getting married."
"They're excited. It's sweet."
"It's exhausting is what it is." But she's smiling. "They adore you, you know. Both of them. They've been asking when they get to call you their sister officially."
The words hit me somewhere soft.
Somewhere that's still healing.
"I adore them too."
"I know you do." Vail takes my hand, squeezes it. "Welcome to the family, Ingrid. Officially. Finally."
"Found it!"
Mom bursts back into the room, the vintage lace veil clutched triumphantly in her hands.
"It was in the bathroom. Don't ask me why. I have no idea."
"Probably because you put it there when you were fixing your makeup," Astrid says dryly.
"Probably. Now hold still."
She approaches me reverently, the veil draped over her arms like a sacred object.
Which, to her, it probably is. "This belonged to your grandmother," she says softly. "She wore it when she married your grandfather. I wore it when I married your father. And now—"
Her voice breaks and there are more tears. "Now you wear it when you marry Gunnar."
She places it on my head carefully, adjusting the delicate lace until it falls perfectly around my face and steps back.
"Mom."
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I just need—" She grabs a tissue from the box on the dresser. "I just need a minute."
Astrid meets my eyes.
We both try not to laugh.
"You look perfect," Astrid says. "Seriously. Like something out of a fairy tale."
I turn back to the mirror.
The veil softens everything.
Makes me look ethereal.
Bridal.
Ready.
My eyes drop to my left arm.
The bandage is still there, peeking out from beneath the lace sleeve.
The wound has healed enough that I don't need it anymore—not really, but the scar is still fresh, still pink and raised and impossible to ignore.
"We could cover it," Mom says gently, following my gaze. "Long gloves, maybe. Or more bandaging that blends with the dress."
I consider it for about two seconds. "No."
"No?"
"These scars are part of my story." I trace a finger along the edge of the bandage. "They're part of how I got here. How we got here. I'm not hiding them."
Mom's eyes fill with fresh tears. "That's my girl."
A knock at the door.
"Everyone decent?" Dad's voice calls through.
"Come in, Dad."
The door opens and my father steps inside.
And stops.
Just stops.
Stares at me like he's never seen me before. "Ingrid." His voice is rough. "You—"
He can't finish either.
Must be genetic.
"Don't you start crying too," I warn him. "Mom's already gone through half a box of tissues."
"I'm not crying." He clears his throat. "I just—you look—"
"Like Mom?"
"Like the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He crosses to me, takes my hands. "Besides your mother, of course."
"Nice save."
"I thought so."
He stares at me for a long moment.
The big, tough VP.
The man who's faced down enemies without flinching.
The man who terrifies prospects with a single glance.
Looking at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world.
"I'm proud of you," he says quietly. "For everything you've survived. Everything you've overcome. The woman you've become."
"Dad—"
"I know I don't say it enough. I know I'm not good with words. But I need you to know—" He squeezes my hands. "I need you to know how proud I am to be your father."
Now I'm crying.
So much for waterproof mascara.
"Dad, you're going to ruin my makeup."
"Blame your mother. She started it."
I laugh through the tears.
Pull him into a hug.
His arms wrap around me—strong, steady, safe.
The same arms that held me when I was a child.
The same arms that will walk me down the aisle in a few minutes.
The same arms that will always be there to catch me when I fall.
"I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, baby girl." He pulls back, clears his throat again. "Now. Are you ready to marry that boy?"
"He's not a boy anymore."
"He'll always be a boy to me. A boy who's lucky as hell that you chose him."
"I think I'm the lucky one."
"You're both lucky." He offers his arm. "Come on. Let's not keep him waiting any longer. He might pass out."
The backyard of the clubhouse has been transformed.
I don't know how they did it in two weeks, but somehow they've turned the space into something magical.
Fairy lights string overhead, crisscrossing between poles wrapped in white fabric and greenery.
Flowers everywhere—roses and peonies and wildflowers in soft pinks and creams and touches of red for Valentine's Day.
Flowing fabric draped from wooden arches, billowing gently in the afternoon breeze.
Bohemian and romantic and absolutely perfect.
Rows of white chairs line a makeshift aisle scattered with rose petals.
And at the end of that aisle—
Gunnar.
My heart stops, just stops.
He's wearing a dark suit—fitted, elegant, perfect.
His cut over it, because of course.
His hair is styled but still a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times.
His jaw is tight.
His eyes are fixed on me, and they're wet.
Vail was right.
He's already crying.
Hasn't even seen me in the dress yet—I'm still hidden behind the corner of the building—and he's already falling apart.
The music starts.
A soft, acoustic version of a song that means something to us.
Something we danced to once, years ago, at a club party when we were just friends.
When I didn't know yet that he loved me.
When he didn't know yet that I'd ever love him back.
"Ready?" Dad asks.
"Ready."
We step around the corner into view and Gunnar completely loses it.
His hand comes up to cover his mouth.
His shoulders shake.
Hakon, standing beside him as best man, claps him on the back.
Says something that makes Ulf snicker.
But Gunnar doesn't look at them.
Doesn't look at anyone except me.
I start walking.
One step at a time.
My father's arm steady beneath my hand.
The rose petals soft under my shoes.
Everyone is watching us.
Charm in the front row, openly sobbing.
Astrid at the altar, beaming.
Vail, wiping her eyes.
Vanir beside her, sitting with his daughters wedged between them.
All of them here.
All of them witnessing this moment.
But I only see Gunnar.
The man who waited for me.
The man who fought for me.
The man who promised me fifty years and meant every word.
We reach the altar.
Dad stops.
Turns to face Gunnar.
"Take care of her," he says gruffly. "Or I'll—"
"Kill me. I know." Gunnar manages a watery smile. "I'd expect nothing less."
"Good." Dad turns to me, lifts my veil, kisses my forehead. "I love you, baby girl."
"I love you too, Dad."
He places my hand in Gunnar's and steps back.
He takes his seat beside Mom, who immediately grabs his arm and sobs into his shoulder.
And then it's just me and Gunnar.
Standing in front of Magnus, who somehow got ordained online specifically for this.
Standing in front of everyone we love.
Standing at the beginning of the rest of our lives.
"Hi," Gunnar whispers.
"Hi."
"You look—" He shakes his head. "There aren't words."
"You're crying."