Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IVY
There is a specific kind of silence that exists in the moments before a high-society wedding begins.
It isn’t the peaceful silence of a library or the empty silence of a desert.
It is a pressurized, expensive hush, the sound of three hundred people holding their breath while sitting on gold-leafed chairs, waiting for a performance to commence.
One year ago, I was a professional at navigating that hush. I knew how to blend into the shadows, how to fix a sagging floral arch without being seen, and how to stand in for a missing bridesmaid without anyone noticing the difference. I was the girl in the background. I was the “Stand-In.”
But today, as I stand in the private bridal suite of the St. Regis, staring at my reflection in a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror, the only person I am standing in for is myself.
The St. Regis wasn't my first choice. I'd imagined walking down the aisle in the barn at Ever After, surrounded by the chaos and love we built there.
But when the guest list hit three hundred—half of them Brooks's business associates and board members who couldn't be excluded without causing a scandal—even Brooks had to admit the barn wouldn't hold them all.
So here we are: the gilded ballroom of Manhattan's most exclusive hotel, but with my flowers, my colors, my rules.
“Ivy, if you breathe any harder, you’re going to pop a seam in that lace, and I am too drunk on morning mimosas to sew you back together,” Savvy says, appearing behind me in the mirror’s reflection.
She looks breathtaking in a structured, floor-length gown of deep plum, a color we chose specifically because it was a defiant middle finger to the pastel “Hamptons” world.
She holds a glass of champagne in one hand and a rogue piece of double-sided tape in the other, her sharp eyes scanning me for imperfections.
“I’m not nervous about the seams, Sav,” I whisper, my hand trembling slightly as I reach up to touch the heavy, intricate lace at my throat.
The dress is a masterpiece of French design, a cloud of ivory silk and delicate embroidery that makes me look like something out of a dream I’ve never been allowed to have. It is bold, it is elegant, and it is entirely mine.
I look down at my hands. On my left is the five-carat diamond, the ring Brooks chose when he thought he’d lost me. It is the only anchor I need. I left the family heirloom in its velvet box at the penthouse. That ring belongs to a history of ghosts; this stone belongs to me.
“You’re nervous about the fact that you don’t have a crisis to manage,” Maddy says, walking over to join us.
She looks soft and radiant in the same plum silk, her eyes already shimmering with the tears she’s been holding back since the hair and makeup team arrived.
“You don’t have to fix anything today, Ivy. You just have to be.”
“It’s a terrifying concept,” I admit. “Being the center of the room without a checklist in my hand.”
"That's because you aren't the consultant today, honey," Savvy says, setting her glass down and turning me around to face her.
"You're the bride. The girl who tackled a billionaire into a marble cherub, sent him to the hospital, and somehow ended up with it all.
We've built Ever After into the top firm in New York.
That's amazing for three girls from River Bend, and now I get to watch my best friend marry the man she loves. Today is a victory lap."
I look at the women who had my back when I was wearing a ruined bridesmaid dress in a hospital room, and who have been my partners through every crazy moment since. We built this empire together.
"We did it," I say, my voice breaking.
"Yes," Maddy agrees, wiping a stray tear. "And you showed him what was actually worth having. Now, go out there and finish the job."
Savvy hands me my bouquet, a wild, unruly thing bursting with crimson dahlias and deep violet anemones, and the three of us slip out of the bridal suite.
The corridor is quiet, all the guests already seated, and our heels click against the marble in a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like a countdown.
Maddy squeezes my hand once, hard, then she and Savvy take their places ahead of me.
I stop outside the ballroom doors. Through the seam between them, I catch a sliver of candlelight and the low hum of hundreds of people pretending to whisper. My heart is hammering so loud I'm sure the string quartet can hear it.
Then the doors swing open, and the world goes white.
The room is an explosion of color. I spent months designing this, fighting against every traditional instinct Betty Taylor possesses.
There are no white lilies here. Instead, the room is filled with aggressive florals, deep reds, vivid purples, and shocking oranges that climb the marble pillars like wildfire and spill over the edges of the altar in a riot of texture.
It is loud, it is messy, and it is beautiful.
It looks exactly like the woman Brooks fell in love with.
I walk down the aisle, the silk of my dress hissing against the rose-petal-strewn floor. I see the faces of the New York elite, the board of directors, and even Penelope Vanderbilt's second cousins, who look like they are trying to calculate the cost of the flowers.
Then, I see Brooks.
He is standing at the end of the aisle, dressed in a black tuxedo that fits him so precisely it leaves no room for doubt about who he is.
He looks every bit the “Shark”, intimidating, powerful, and unyielding. But as our eyes meet, the mask doesn’t crack; it vanishes.
His jaw goes tight, his throat working as he swallows hard. His eyes darken with a raw, unadulterated emotion that makes the air vanish from my lungs. For a man who lives his life by spreadsheets and exit strategies, he looks utterly, wonderfully lost in the moment.
When I reach him, he doesn’t wait for the officiant to give him permission. He reaches out and takes both of my hands in his, his grip firm and warm, anchoring me to the spot.
“You’re late,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough rumble that only I can hear.
“I had to make sure the florals didn’t start a riot,” I say, my heart swelling until it feels like it might burst.
The ceremony flows with traditional readings and quiet elegance. But when it comes time for the vows, Brooks doesn't pull out a piece of paper. He doesn't look at a teleprompter. He looks at me, his fingers lacing through mine.
"I spent years believing that life was a series of managed risks," he says, his voice carrying through the silent ballroom with the weight of an absolute truth.
"I thought that if I could construct the perfect image, find the right person to fill the gaps in my life, I could protect the name I was born into.
I wanted someone who would play the part and follow the script. "
He squeezes my hands.
"But you’ve never followed anyone's script, Ivy.
From the moment we met, you challenged every assumption I'd made about what my life was supposed to look like.
You showed me that a life lived behind walls isn't a life at all.
You weren't a replacement for the things I was missing.
You were everything I didn't know I was allowed to want.
I don't want a performance, Ivy. I want the woman who never let me settle for less than real.
I want you, for every minute of the rest of my life.
No contingencies. No fallback plan. Only us. "
By the time he finishes, I can't see the crowd through my tears. I take a shaky breath, my gaze locked on his.
"When we first met, I thought I knew exactly what this would be," I say, my voice heavy with emotion.
"I thought I understood the terms, the expectations, the role I was supposed to play.
But you saw past all of that. You saw the girl who showed up in a leather jacket when everyone expected silk.
You saw the woman from River Bend who didn't fit into your carefully ordered world, and instead of asking me to change, you made room for me exactly as I am.
You're the first person who ever made me feel like I didn't have to apologize for taking up space.
I don't want careful anymore, Brooks. I don't want calculated.
I want you. The man who shared a burger with me under the stars and showed up at my door. "
When the officiant finally declares us husband and wife, Brooks doesn't wait for the invitation.
He pulls me flush against his chest, his hand cupping the back of my head, and kisses me with a hunger that makes it very clear propriety is no longer his concern.
It is a kiss that makes the front rows squirm in their seats, and I love every second of it.
The reception is a riot of laughter and music.
I watch as Betty Taylor actually shares a laugh with my mother over a tray of mini-sliders, and I see Preston Taylor, the most feared man on Wall Street, doing a clumsy, genuine two-step with Maddy.
The “stability” the board wanted isn’t a mask anymore; it is the foundation of a life that feels, finally, fully lived.
But as the clock ticks toward midnight, a familiar tug pulls at my waist.
“The car is waiting,” Brooks whispers into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “I’ve done my duty. I’ve shaken every hand and played the part of the happy groom.”
“And are you?” I ask, turning in his arms as the band plays the final notes of the night.
“I’m the luckiest man in this city,” he says, his eyes burning with a fire that makes my knees weak. “But I’m tired of sharing you. I want my wife to myself.”
We slip out the back entrance of the St. Regis, dodging a final few photographers before the SUV pulls away from the curb. The city is a blur of lights and shadows, but inside the car, the air is thick with the realization that the “term” of our agreement is now forever.
When we finally reach the penthouse, Brooks doesn’t even wait for the door to close before he has me pinned against the mahogany paneling. The lights of the foyer are dim, the only sound the distant, peaceful hum of the city thirty floors below.
"Ivy Taylor," he says, his voice rough with possession.
He reaches for the row of tiny silk buttons running down the back of my dress. His hands, usually so precise, are trembling.
"I've been wanting to take this dress off you since the second you stepped onto that aisle," he says, the first button giving way under his touch.
"Patience was never your strong suit," I breathe, though my own hands are already working at the buttons of his shirt.
"Not when it comes to you," he says, his mouth descending to the sensitive cord of my neck, his teeth grazing the skin.
The dress slides down my body, thirty thousand dollars of lace and silk hitting the marble floor, leaving me in nothing but a pair of sheer white stockings. Brooks lets out a low, guttural sound, his eyes tracking over my body with a possessive intensity that makes my blood boil.
He strips out of his tuxedo with a frantic, desperate energy. This isn’t the “stable” Brooks Taylor. This isn’t the one who counts seconds. This is a man who has been starved for a life that feels this real.
He closes the distance between us, and I'm already reaching for him. My legs lock around his waist, my arms circling his neck as he carries me toward the bedroom.
He lowers me onto the massive, silk-sheeted bed that overlooks the Hudson River.
His body is a heavy, grounding presence as he follows me down, his hands framing my face as he looks deep into my eyes.
"My wife," he whispers.
"My husband," I breathe.
And then there are no more words.
Later, as the first hints of a New York dawn begin to streak the sky with pink and gold, I lie tucked into Brooks's side. The city is waking up, the sound of distant sirens and early morning taxis a peaceful white noise.
I look down at my hand, the emerald-cut diamond catching the early light.
"What are you thinking about?" Brooks asks, his voice sleepy and warm. He pulls me closer, his chin resting on the top of my head.
"How perfect this is," I say softly. "How right."
Brooks kisses the top of my head, his arms tightening around me.
"This is the beginning," he murmurs. "We've got the rest of our lives ahead of us."
He tilts my chin up, his eyes searching mine with a peace and contentment that makes my heart swell.
"I can't wait to see what we build together."
I smile, closing my eyes as I drift toward sleep, content in the arms of the man I love.
After all those weddings, all those happy endings I've orchestrated for others, I finally have the one that matters most.
My own.
Thank you for reading The Stand-In.