Chapter Thirteen
EVERETT
I’ve closed nine-figure deals without my pulse shifting. I've walked into hostile boardrooms, faced down regulators, delivered termination notices to men twice my age—all of it with the same resting heart rate I maintain on a morning swim.
Today, my hands won't stop adjusting my cufflinks.
I'm standing in my bedroom at the compound—the master suite I built three years ago and have barely slept in—staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror like it owes me an explanation.
The suit is navy. A custom Tom Ford. The shirt is white. The tie is a deeper navy that borders on black. Everything fits. Everything is exactly the way Everly is selling this wedding. Meaning, it all has to be perfect.
Sure... I look like a man getting married.
The problem is, I look like a man getting married and meaning every moment of it.
"You look like a groom, but your face says, tax audit."
Damien Rockmore leans against my doorframe like he's been watching this existential crisis unfold for entertainment purposes. Which he has. His own suit—charcoal, Brioni, offensively well-fitted—looks like he threw it on without a thought.
He didn't. Damien thinks about everything. He just wants you to believe he doesn't.
"Are you going to fix that tie or do I have to?"
"The tie is fine," I tell him.
"It's crooked. Everly will kill you if you walk out looking like that.
" He pushes off the frame and crosses the room.
Before I can stop him, his hands are at my collar, straightening the knot with the efficient disinterest of a man who's done this at enough galas to be muscle memory.
"I'm about to save your life. You're welcome. "
"Everly doesn't scare me."
"She scares everyone," he says with a satisfied smirk as he finishes with my tie. "There. Now you look like a billionaire getting married instead of a billionaire being audited."
"Those feel remarkably similar right now."
Damien grins. It's a grin that has made him the subject of more tabloid speculation than any tech founder has a right to be. "You nervous?"
"No."
"Liar," he grins.
"It's just a wedding. A fake one at that."
"You say that now, because you haven't seen the bride yet."
I whip a look in his direction. "You've seen her today?"
He nods. "Everly asked me to walk over to her house and get the rings for the ceremony. Aria was already in her dress."
"It's a contract," I remind him. And myself. Damien shrugs and walks back behind me to give me back my unobstructed view in the mirror. "Two signatures and an expiration date."
I meet his eyes in the mirror. He's watching me with that particular sharpness he reserves for the rare moments when he actually gives a shit.
"Sure," he says, sliding his hands in his pocket with a casual swagger that I hate. "I guess we'll find out when you see her at the end of the aisle. Just trust me when I say... you're not prepared for this."
The bedroom door bangs open.
"The groom lives!" Levi announces, arms spread wide, holding a champagne bottle in one hand and a crystal flute in the other. He's in his suit already—midnight blue, open collar, no tie because Levi believes ties are "the necktie-industrial complex's assault on personal freedom."
Behind him, Colston fills the doorway. His suit strains slightly at the shoulders because Colston is built like a man who bench-presses the buildings he constructs.
"You look good," Colston says.
"He looks constipated," Levi corrects, uncorking the champagne with a pop that makes Damien flinch. "But don't worry. That's how he always looks at important moments. Remember the IPO? Same face. Exactly the same face."
"Get out," I say.
"Can't." Levi pours. "Everly has a timeline and my job is to deliver you downstairs in forty-seven minutes or face consequences she described as 'creative and permanent.' She might only be five foot three on a good day, but I'm not taking my chances with the tiny dictator."
"She should be running this family instead of me," I say.
"She does," all of my brothers including Damien say at the same time. They aren't wrong.
Colston takes out a hidden flask from behind his tux and takes a pull off the container and then hands it to me. "She's terrifying today."
"She's terrifying every day," Damien mutters.
A shot of whatever Colston's got isn't a bad idea. I tip it back—the taste of whiskey hitting my tongue. Then I hand it back.
Levi's eyes light up. "Oh, you should've seen her this morning. Rockmore showed up to check on the arch and she told him—and I am quoting directly—'If you touch a single flower, I will disassemble your entire net worth petal by petal.'"
"She's efficient with threats," Damien says, and there's something in his jaw.
"She's efficient with everything," Colston agrees.
More brothers arrive. Christian in a perfectly pressed charcoal suit, hair combed back, looking exactly like the attorney who drew up the contract that got us here.
Zayne, who someone let near a camera crew this morning and has already given an unauthorized soundbite to a lifestyle reporter Everly is going to murder him for.
Wes enters last. Doesn't announce himself. Just takes a position near the window, glass of water in hand, eyes scanning the room like he's cataloging the positions of every piece on the board. He nods at me once.
It's enough.
Archer isn't here. He'll be downstairs already, having appeared from whatever shadow he inhabits when humans aren't watching. I'll see him at the arch. A single nod. His security team is already in place.
"Alright." Levi raises his glass. "To the first Kauffman brother dumb enough to get married."
"To the trust clause," Christian says dryly.
"To Dad's ghost," Colston adds, "who is probably watching from hell and taking notes."
Nobody disagrees.
"To Aria," Damien says. Quiet. Cutting through the noise the way he always does—reading a room no one else even noticed shifted.
The room goes still for half a beat.
To Aria.
I drink.
The compound lawn has been transformed into something I don't recognize.
Three hundred white chairs face the water.
An arch draped in white roses, orchids, ranunculus, peonies and trailing greenery frames the view of the Sound beyond.
String lights thread through the surrounding trees—unnecessary in the afternoon light, but they'll catch fire when the sun drops during the reception.
Three hundred guests fill the chairs. Family friends. Board members. Business associates. A strategic handful of press in a cordoned section that Everly is managing with the cold efficiency of a border patrol agent.
I'm standing at the arch with Damien at my shoulder and Christian beside him. The officiant—a retired federal judge who owes my family more favors than anyone should ow another person—stands to my left.
Board members from the trust are in the third row. Wallendorf. Chesney. The one whose name I can never remember who always smells like pipe tobacco and disapproves of everything.
They're watching, and they're supposed to believe this is real.
The string quartet shifts to something classical that Everly selected. Something respectable for a wedding but something a little unexpected because it wouldn't be an Everly Kauffman event without a surprise.
And then the guests stand.
And then —
She's there.
At the far end of the aisle. White. Not bright white—the soft kind. The kind that looks like it was made from light. The dress surprises me. I was expecting something architectural. Layers of perfectly placed construction.
But this? This is something entirely different. It's elegant yet ethereal. The fabric moves with her body... it catches in the breeze. She looks like some kind of angel. Her hair is down—dark auburn and loose over her shoulders in a way I've never seen on her before.
Henry is beside her. His good hand gripping her arm. His back straight. His steps slow and deliberate and exactly the pace she's matching without thought. His cane gripped in his other hand to help keep him steady on the uneven ground.
I lose the thought.
Somewhere between the observation and the analysis, my brain stops cataloging. Stops measuring. Stops doing the thing it has done every day of my professional life—the disassembly, the risk assessment, the contingency planning.
She's halfway down the aisle and I have no plan.
I don't have a plan.
Damien's hand lands briefly on my shoulder. And then it's gone. He was right. I wasn't prepared for seeing her like this.
I don't look at him. I don't look at the board members. I don't look at Sienna or any of my brothers in the crowd. I don't look at the three hundred people in chairs who are watching to see if Everett Kauffman can perform this convincingly enough to satisfy a dead man's clause.
I watch her match her father's steps.
Henry delivers her to me like a man handing over something sacred.
His grip on her arm loosens. He turns to her. Cups her face the way he did last night at the rehearsal—rough-handed but gentle.
"I'm proud of you, sweetheart," he says. Not quietly. He wants people to hear it. He wants the world to know.
Her eyes are wet. She blinks once, hard.
He turns to me. Those sharp-on-a-good-day eyes land on mine and hold.
"You already know," he says.
I nod. "Yes sir."
He clasps my shoulder—a single, hard squeeze—and then he takes his seat.