Chapter 28

over caution. “Show me.”

Lily flipped to a dog-eared page. Elaborate ballroom setups, towering floral arrangements, the kind of extravagance that had nothing to do with anything Damian and I actually wanted.

“That’s not really our style,” I said carefully.

“I know. I already told her that.”

“You did?”

“I said you liked the beach better. She got a weird face.”

I bit back a laugh, imagining Victoria’s expression upon receiving an eight-year-old’s critique of her taste. “What kind of weird face?”

“The one she makes when Dad disagrees with her.”

That, unfortunately, painted a very clear picture.

Damian appeared a few minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, looking considerably more put together than the sleepy man I’d left upstairs. He kissed the top of Lily’s head before dropping into the seat beside me.

“What did I miss?”

“Aunt Victoria’s attempting a hostile takeover of the wedding,” I said. “Via magazine.”

“Of course she is.”

“Lily handled it.”

“I told her the beach was better,” Lily said proudly.

Damian smiled, that small, genuine one that still felt like a private gift every time he offered it. “Good girl.”

Breakfast continued in easy chatter, Lily narrating an elaborate story about her class hamster while Damian and I exchanged amused glances over her head. It struck me, watching them together, how naturally this had all become. Six months ago, breakfast in this house had felt like performing a role. Now it just felt like living.

Later that morning, Mason stopped by the house, files tucked under his arm, expression carefully neutral in the way that usually meant bad news.

“What now?” Damian asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Richard’s requested access to the venue contract.”

“Why?”

“Officially, curiosity.” Mason set the folder down. “Unofficially, I think he’s looking for something to challenge. A loophole. Anything to delay or complicate things.”

Harper felt her stomach tighten. “Can he do that?”

“Not legally,” Mason said. “But that’s never stopped him from trying.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, the same tension from months ago creeping back into his shoulders. “Handle it.”

“Already on it.” Mason hesitated, glancing between us. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’ll succeed. He’s grasping. That usually means he’s running out of real options.”

“Comforting,” I muttered.

Mason offered a small, sympathetic smile before gathering his files and leaving. Once he was gone, Damian exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from his posture.

“He’s not going to stop,” I said quietly.

“No. Probably not.”

“Does that scare you?”

Damian considered the question seriously, the way he considered most things. “It used to. Before you.”

“And now?”

“Now I have more reasons to fight back than I used to. That’s different from being scared.”

I reached for his hand across the table, something steady passing between us. “We’ll handle whatever he throws at us.”

“Together.”

“Together,” I agreed.

That afternoon, we drove out to the venue ourselves, wanting to see the space in person before committing to anything final. The property sat right along the coastline, a modest but elegant building with wide windows overlooking the water, exactly the kind of understated beauty we’d both been drawn to since the island.

“This is it,” Harper said, walking through the empty reception hall, sunlight spilling across the wooden floors. “This is exactly it.”

Damian watched her more than the room itself, something soft settling into his expression. “I agree.”

“You haven’t even looked around properly.”

“I don’t need to. If you’re happy here, I’m happy here.”

Warmth spread through my chest at that, familiar now but no less overwhelming each time it happened. I walked toward the windows, looking out over the water, imagining exactly how the ceremony would look — white chairs, ocean breeze, Lily scattering flower petals with far too much enthusiasm.

Damian came up behind me, wrapping his arms loosely around my waist, chin resting against my shoulder. We stood there together, quiet, watching the waves roll steadily against the shore.

“I keep thinking about that night on the beach,” he said softly. “The message in the sand.”

“Marry him again.”

“I keep wondering who wrote it.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” he admitted. “I think I’m just grateful someone did.”

I turned slightly in his arms, meeting his eyes fully. Something unspoken passed between us again, heavier this time, harder to ignore than it had been at the gala.

“Damian—”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Slow. I remember.”

But his eyes said something different, something urgent and barely restrained beneath the patience we’d both promised each other. I felt it too, the quiet ache of wanting to say more, to close whatever distance still remained between careful and certain.

“Soon,” I whispered instead.

“Soon,” he agreed.

We stood there a while longer, wrapped in the kind of silence that said more than words ever could, watching the ocean stretch endlessly toward the horizon, both of us aware that soon was arriving faster than either of us had expected.