Epilogue
ADAIR
One Year Later
The Palm Beach Club looks different now.
Or maybe I do. My shoulders don’t clench pulling into the drive.
My chest doesn’t buzz with that low-grade impostor syndrome I used to carry like a purse.
Tonight, there’s a slow exhale and the hum of excitement in my stomach that only shows up when Parker’s waiting inside.
The lanterns lining the path used to feel like a cover story. Now they remind me what it took to get here.
I ease into the circular drive, the building coming into view as I pull in. The white stone, manicured hedges, and columns are tall enough to make an entrance feel like a ceremony.
By the time I glide under the portico, the front doors are in full view. Oversized, arched, and exactly the kind of extra this place is known for. Still makes me roll my eyes a little, but with the kind of affection you reserve for family, whether they’re assigned or chosen.
Before the valet gets to me, I crack the window a little to let the humid summer night in. Salt, lemon blossoms, and some expensive cologne hit me like a pre-party appetizer. The mix rushes in fast and settles deep, grounding me in a way my therapist would call “progress.”
The handsome man, all tuxedo and white gloves, opens my door. I step out, smooth my dress, and sling my bag over my shoulder.
A year ago, I would’ve rather swallowed glass than voluntarily show up here. This was a world I didn’t belong to, but I kept coming anyway.
Everything’s different now.
This place used to shrink me. Now it lifts me. Not because I changed my outfit or started using phrases like curated brand experience. It’s because I earned every damn part of the life I’m walking into.
The valet nods as he takes the keys. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Carpenter.”
I flash him a smile. “If there’s champagne inside, I will.”
He grins and gives a tiny bow. It's unnecessary, but kind of adorable. I turn toward the doors, heels clicking against the stone like punctuation.
Citrine isn’t a hope anymore—it’s a whole thing.
My products are flying off the shelves, thanks to a combination of cosmic events, including Rose and the formidable Evelyn Thatcher and her terrifying Rolodex. I sleep less, swear more, and smell like rosemary toner most days.
Not only are my products carried in thirty-seven of fifty states and three countries, but Citrine’s flagship location here in Palm Beach is a full-blown destination now. It's exactly how I envisioned it. It’s a juice bar, spa, and holistic market rolled into one.
Parker’s killing it in general surgery. I’m killing it in the personal care space. And together, we’re basically an orgasmic power couple with excellent cardio routines and too many Google Calendars.
He’s also partnered with Bets on a few real estate projects—because apparently, Parker doesn’t know how to sit still unless I’m on top of him.
He’s nothing like his father, thank God.
No smoke, no mirrors. Just quiet, intentional work.
Maybe he gets that from Roger—building things that last without needing to be applauded for it.
I pull my phone from my bag, just in case he texted again. Nothing new. Just the one from this morning.
Happy annulment-iversary. Let’s reenact the night we met—minus the estate attorney and awkward small talk. Wear that black dress. You know the one.
I roll my eyes, mostly to distract myself from the ridiculous flip in my stomach.
After Vermont, we agreed to move forward with the annulment. Not because we regretted it—because we don't. We wanted the reset. No contracts. No clauses. But we both agreed we wanted to choose each other the right way.
So naturally, the second I step into the grand ballroom and spot Bets, Jenna, Cam, Gunner, and what looks like half the island—I know “nothing fancy” was a damn lie.
Chandeliers blaze overhead. The tables sparkle with flowers and candles and entirely too much intention. Yacht rock hums in the background, like the night’s in on the joke.
My lungs go tight, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. A lump rises in my throat, and I have to fight the urge to cry and laugh at the same time. This has him written all over it.
“You clean up nice,” Jenna murmurs, already halfway through a glass of champagne.
“You knew?”
She lifts a brow. “I helped coordinate the playlist.”
Before I can tackle her, she disappears into the crowd like a smug little event fairy.
And then I see him.
Parker, in a navy suit that should come with a warning label, stands in the center of it all like he owns the night. He sees me instantly. That damn smile, the one that ruins me, spreads across his face.
He walks toward me just as the lights dim. It's almost like he timed it.
I blink, trying to focus, but my heart is going rogue. My throat’s tight. My hands don’t know what to do.
“What’s all this?” I ask, aiming for light and breezy, but my voice comes out soft and unsteady.
“You’ll see,” he says, then threads our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He tugs me toward the center of the ballroom. My heels click over the polished hardwood floor.
Voices hush around us, swallowed one by one.
The speakers crackle. Then I hear it— “Baby Come Back.”
The chorus trips over my skin, electric and impossible to ignore. My throat closes. My chest tightens like it’s bracing for impact.
He chose this on purpose. Not for a memory, for a message.
My eyes snap to his. He’s already watching me.
And in that split second, before he even moves, I know. He pulls a small black velvet box from his pocket and drops to one knee. One perfect goddamn knee.
The air whooshes out of my lungs.
“Adair Carpenter,” he says. His voice is strong, but not slick. It cracks, slightly, and that’s what twists me in a knot.
“The first time I met you, you gave me one night. It was unforgettable. Electric. The kind of night that sticks with a man, telling him it is significant before he's smart enough to know it consciously.”
I exhale quickly and shakily.
“Then fate threw us back together. As neighbors. Which, let’s be honest, is the funniest damn thing it could’ve done. Of course we didn't know that until after that amazing massage, but...”
A laugh bursts out of me. I’m half-sobbing, half-grinning, and one hundred percent undone.
“And this time, you brought your sass, your rules, and a contract. We turned one hot night and a ridiculous riddle into six months of absolute chaos—into the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Technically, it was just over a month,” I say, arching a brow.
Laughter ripples through the room, but he doesn’t look away.
“You stayed,” he says quietly. “You saw the mess, the flaws, all the broken parts, and you stayed. Somehow, you made all of it make sense.”
His voice drops.
"I want to marry you forever this time, Adair. Not for a month or six months. I'm asking you if you'll give me your forever? I want you to be my forever wife."
My heart stumbles in my chest.
“I want forever this time. Not months. Not a clause. Just you. My forever wife. ”
My heart stumbles.
“I want forever with you,” I whisper, bending until our noses almost touch. “It’s always been you.”
He slides the ring on my finger. Simple. Perfect.
“Yes?” he asks.
Later, as the music swells and we sway beneath the flicker of candlelight and chandeliers, his hand finds the small of my back—familiar, sure, possessive in the best way. He leans in, lips brushing my temple. “I love you, Adair.”
It’s not for the crowd. Not for the story.
It’s for me.
I tip my chin, meet his gaze. “I love you, too.”
Then I smirk. “Even if you did trick me into marriage.”
He laughs against my mouth. “Had to lock down the best thing that ever happened to me, even if I didn’t know how to understand it at the time.”
“Damn right,” I murmur.
I press my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat is solid under my palm, steady in a way nothing used to be.
The music swells again. Laughter rolls behind us. Glasses clink. But in here, in this hold, in this moment, I’m exactly where I belong.
No contracts. No conditions. Just us.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “This is forever.”
Six Months Late r
The mirror in front of me is big enough to host its own bridal party. I lean in, swipe a finger under my eye, and try not to cry before the mascara sets.
Behind me, Jenna tosses a tube of lip gloss into her clutch and flops onto the velvet bench like she’s the one about to walk down the aisle.
“You know,” she says, stretching her legs out in front of her like a cat, “for someone getting married again , you’re weirdly calm.”
I glance at her in the mirror. “Because I’m doing it on purpose this time. That helps.”
She snorts. “Still weird.”
I roll my eyes and turn to face her. “What did you expect? A panic spiral? Me pulling a runaway bride in Jimmy Choos?”
“You know I love a little drama,” Jenna says, popping a strawberry into her mouth from the silver tray the club insisted on. “I am an aspiring actress, after all.”
I tap the satin-wrapped heel of my shoe on the floor. “Parker and I had enough drama to last a lifetime. I’m good with calm today. Though my left boob is currently waging war against this corset, so we’re not totally out of the woods.”
Jenna grins. “Yeah, I won’t disagree with you there.”
Jenna eyes the mountain of gift bags in the corner, one of which is stamped with Nordstrom’s signature black logo. She tips her head toward it.
“Just casually flexing your nationwide rollout, huh?”
I smirk, blotting my lipstick, keeping one eye on her through the mirror and one on my lips. “I’ve never been subtle. I’m pretty proud of that deal. There were times I didn’t think it would happen.”
“I never doubted you. You’re a badass in every possible way. And today you’re going to marry the hottest man alive, who oozes love for you. Your high school vision board must have burst into flames.”