Chapter 196
Chapter 196
Harper
"We're taking good care of Henry," Grace announced to the stone with characteristic directness. "And Daddy is teaching him how to build robots, just like Samuel. We don't let anyone at school be mean to him, either. I kicked Connor Marshall when he said something bad."
"Grace," I admonished gently, though I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. My daughter's fierce protectiveness was both endearing and occasionally problematic.
"Well, I did," she said unapologetically. "And I'd do it again."
Samuel went last, solemn and thoughtful as always. He didn't speak—words had never been his preferred method of expression—but placed the small model butterfly beside Grace's card. As sunlight hit it, the delicate wings began to move, creating the illusion of a butterfly about to take flight. Henry gasped softly at the sight.
I knelt beside him. "Your mom was brave," I said softly. "She helped us in the end, and that's something we'll always remember."
"She was scared," Henry said suddenly. "But she still did the right thing."
"That's what real courage is," Rowan said, joining us and placing his hand on Henry's shoulder. "Being afraid but acting anyway. Your mother loved you very much. That's something that never changes, no matter what."
Henry looked up at Rowan, then back at the grave. "Do you think she can see me?"
It was the kind of question that paralyzed adults—too complex, too philosophical for a simple answer. But Rowan didn't hesitate.
"I think love doesn't disappear," he said carefully. "It changes form, but it remains. So in that way, yes, I believe she's watching over you."
Henry considered this, then nodded. "I'm going to make her proud," he declared.
"You already do, buddy," Samuel said, surprising us all with his emotional perception. "Every day."
As we walked back to the cars, I noticed Henry walking between Samuel and Grace, their hands linked in a chain of support. Above us, the clouds parted, and sunlight streamed down, catching the mechanical butterfly's wings in one final flutter before we left.
The symbolism wasn't lost on me. Something beautiful had emerged from our collective pain—a family forged in fire, stronger for its scars.
---
"I swear these buttons were designed by someone who hates women," I muttered, struggling with the impossibly tiny pearl fasteners on Vivien's wedding dress. "Hold still, or I'll stab you with this pin, and Owen will have to marry you with a bloodstained dress."
"You wouldn't dare," Vivien laughed, though she obediently stopped fidgeting. "Besides, Owen's a doctor. He'd probably just find it interesting."
"Fascinating hemoglobin distribution pattern," I mimicked Owen's clinical tone, making Vivien snort with laughter.
"Stop! You'll ruin my makeup," she protested, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes.
I stepped back to admire my best friend. The ivory dress hugged her figure perfectly before flaring gently at the knees, the delicate beadwork catching the light with every movement. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, with a few strategic tendrils framing her face.
"He's going to pass out when he sees you," I declared.
"Don't even joke about that," Vivien said, but her smile betrayed her pleasure at the compliment. "After everything we've been through to get here, I'm not having my groom unconscious at the altar."
"Remember our college graduation?" I asked suddenly, the memory surfacing unexpectedly. "When we made that pact?"
Vivien's expression softened. "That we'd be each other's maid of honor no matter what? Of course I remember."
"You said you'd wear blue at your wedding. Something about it matching Owen's eyes." I gestured to her decidedly not-blue dress.
"Plans change," she said with a shrug. "People change. Sometimes for the better." She turned to face me fully, suddenly serious. "Thank you," she said, her voice dropping.
"For helping with the dress? It's literally the least I could do after everything—"
"No," she interrupted. "For not giving up on me and Owen. For pushing me to listen to him that day."
"You would have figured it out eventually," I said, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "You're the smartest person I know."
"Smart, but stubborn," she acknowledged. "Without you pushing me to hear him out, I might have wasted even more years."
"That's what friends do," I said simply. "You never gave up on me, even when I disappeared for five years."
"Well," she said, her tone turning playful, "I did have a tracker implanted in your arm while you were sleeping. Made finding you much easier."
I laughed, appreciating her return to humor. Emotional intensity had never been comfortable for either of us—perhaps why we understood each other so well.
Vivien checked her reflection one last time. "Speaking of weddings," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "When are you and Rowan going to make things official? Again, I mean."
"We're taking it slow this time," I replied, busying myself with arranging her veil. "Building something real."
"Harper Sinclair, you live together, raise three children together, and run a multi-billion dollar company together. I'd say you're beyond 'taking it slow.'"
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door, and Grace peeked in, resplendent in her flower girl dress, a crown of small white roses perched on her dark curls.
"Daddy says it's time!" she announced excitedly. "And Samuel says if we don't hurry, Uncle Owen might change his mind because Aunt Vivien is the scariest person he knows when she's in boss mode."
Vivien gasped in mock outrage. "Samuel Sinclair-Whitaker! I am not scary!"
"His words, not mine," Grace said with an impish grin. "But Henry says Uncle Owen is too in love to be scared, so it's probably fine."
I exchanged an amused glance with Vivien. "Out of the mouths of babes," I murmured.
"Let's not keep my not-at-all-scared fiancé waiting," Vivien said, taking a deep breath. "Ready?"
I squeezed her hand. "Always."
---
The wedding was everything a ceremony should be—intimate, joyful, and focused entirely on the couple exchanging vows beneath an arch of white roses in the garden of the Beverly Hills Hotel. I stood beside Vivien as her maid of honor, watching Owen's face transform with undisguised love as she walked down the aisle on her father's arm.
Across from me, Rowan stood as Owen's best man, immaculate in his dark suit. Our eyes met briefly over the heads of the wedding party, and his subtle wink sent a ridiculous flutter through my stomach—as if we were the ones getting married today.
The children sat in the front row, Samuel and Henry in matching suits, Grace between them, practically vibrating with excitement. Samuel had taken his role as ring bearer with characteristic seriousness, practicing the walk for days to ensure he wouldn't trip. Grace had scattered her rose petals with artistic precision, creating a pattern rather than the random distribution most flower girls favored.
When Owen and Vivien reached the part about "for better or worse," Owen suddenly departed from the traditional script.