Epilogue Elliot
Epilogue
Elliot
Nothing happened.
The last day of the stupid internship came and went. Rowen and I helped Maeve move out of the apartment and into one she could afford. Not as nice as the intern accommodation, but much nicer than Paula’s studio in Brooklyn. (I understood why Henry desperately wanted his girlfriend out of there.)
Maeve officially started as a junior designer at Adeline Ashwood, while I continued working on the foundation.
My lawyers never contacted me about a change in the will, my mother never spoke to me about how I should have another conversation with Hunter (“This time he’ll change his mind, I’m sure!
”), and a week later, I got a call from my bank, telling me my cards were unblocked and all funds available again.
It was a little disorienting not to feel the consequences of Hunter’s wrath when we’d grown up fearing nothing but. When our upbringing had been a dictatorship, and what (barely) kept us in line all those years was the threat of being called into his office.
It was scary, too. Like any minute, he could change my life dramatically. No more penthouse, no more inheritance, no more foundation.
Maybe that’s what he’d wanted. For me to always behave and walk on eggshells because he still held that one thing over my head. That one life-ruining thing.
But I’d never been a pessimist, so all I took his lack of action for was an opportunity to finally give Maeve the date she deserved.
The one she’d won at an auction I’d only dragged her to for more time with her.
Because I needed an excuse to see her in a dress I’d spotted in our archives and couldn’t look at without imagining her in it.
She’d looked as beautiful then as she did now, nervously pacing beside me. The stone floors made the sound of her heels echo through the hall. Columns framed the red carpet up the staircase, and the water in the fountains beside them was crystal clear.
“I’m nervous,” she said.
“I know.” I usually did, somehow. “It’s like exposure therapy. The more times you’re unprepared, the better.”
She looked horrified. Adorable. Beautiful, as always. “I don’t want to end up living like you.”
The insult shouldn’t have made me smile. “I’m not going to take that personally.”
She laughed, finally stopped running circles around me, so I could stop turning with her. “You know what I mean,” she insisted, breathing the words against my lips. And I always did.
The arched doors at the top of the staircase opened loudly, creaking with the weight they carried and keeping her from finally connecting her lips with mine. Slightly frustrating.
“Mr. Ashwood.” His voice was low, hair gray, and tux crisp. “Ms. Peterson. Sorry for the wait, follow me.”
Beside me, Maeve turned around her own axis one last time to marvel at the tall ceilings, stone sculptures, and architectural details, then looked at me, wide-eyed and entranced. I decided right then and there that I wanted to see that look on her face every hour of every day, if possible.
If it wasn’t there, I’d make it appear.
My hand found the small of her back, feeling the weight of her press against it and the steadfast way it grounded me. Always had, no matter how many people there were, how nervous I was, or how close I’d been to losing it.
We followed Ben up the stairs, through the arch, and down a hall, ending up in front of a closed door. He gestured toward it, bowed in a way that made Maeve’s gaze shoot straight to mine before she mouthed, Oh my God.
“I’m nervous,” she repeated, just staring at the door, not making an attempt to press the handle. I was nervous too, and I knew what was waiting for us.
Maeve took her time, and I gave it to her. Eventually, she opened the door.
Into a gallery with every single archived Adeline Ashwood piece she’d had pinned above her desk in college (thanks, Paula!) on mannequins winding through the space.
Golden and glittering gowns, sleek two-pieces with no more fabric than lingerie, a suit with colors resembling an exotic bird.
Twenty looks, twenty fabrics she felt between her fingers, and delicate stitching she let her hands run across.
Through all of it, Maeve wouldn’t say a word to me.
“What do you—”
“Shh!”
So, I did. Watched her inspect each mannequin and focused on the small, distracted smile on her lips.
Watched it widen when she whispered a name to herself, then checked the label only to have guessed (or probably known) correctly what collection it had been or who’d designed it. Most of them were Camila’s.
Without whom most of these looks wouldn’t be here, either.
When she’d answered my email, I’d taken it as a silent, unspoken peace treaty between us. One she’d probably never admit to publicly. One she’d probably only agreed to for Maeve’s sake.
We were getting to the end of the lineup, one final dress standing at the head. In front of it, a round table, a candle in the middle, plates set, and wine in an ice bucket beside it. She walked right past it, then finally said her first words.
“Is this—” She blinked across her shoulder, brows drawn together tightly like she was trying really hard to keep them from doing anything else. The crease between them quivered.
“Yes.”
“Daphne’s—”
This time, my head shook. “Yours.” On the label on the back, it read Adeline Ashwood by Maeve Peterson: Anima Naturae. “It’ll be a part of the next spring collection. Officially.”
I wasn’t sure if she’d breathed yet. “How did you—?”
“I didn’t.” A shrug before I joined her by the table. “I couldn’t possibly influence anything at Adeline Ashwood if I tried. As always, Camila, Oliver, and Gabriel decided what the centerpiece of the collection should be, and this is what they chose.”
Finally, Maeve gasped. Not in surprise or fear. Just because I’d been right, and she hadn’t taken a breath yet. “Are you sure?”
I snickered, pulled her chair out, and beckoned her to sit. She did, but her eyes stayed on her dress. “It’s beautiful,” I said, another one of those friendly reminders.
Instead of telling her it had been obvious, she shouldn’t be surprised, and everything always turned out for her this way anyway, I just repeated, “You did so well.”
And it tinted her cheeks, finally made her look my way. Immediately, her hands found mine across the table. Immediately, there was a teariness to her voice I wouldn’t appreciate most times.
“This is beautiful, Elliot. How did you—? I mean, that’s so many designs.”
“It certainly helped that Camila doesn’t want to see my head on a spike anymore.”
“A lovely development,” she agreed, trying to covertly wipe at her eyes.
“And that Hunter hasn’t gone through with his threat yet helped, too.”
Maeve took another deep breath and seemed to finally be settling into this. Being loved loudly and openly and wholly. Letting me in and ignoring that taunting voice in her head saying it was too good to be true.
I knew it was there because it was in mine, too.
“I don’t think he will,” she said after a long pause. “Go through with his threat. If he wanted to cut you off, he would’ve done it the second you quit. He doesn’t seem like the type of man to stall these things.”
“Maybe in some part of his soul he forgot to sell for success, he realized I’m his grandson after all.”
“Maybe.” She hummed. “Or maybe whatever lesson that internship was supposed to teach you, it did.”
Humility, structure, respect—sure.
More than that, though, it taught me that sometimes you needed to forgive that pretty girl spilling coffee all over your shirt because she might just end up being the love of your life.