Chapter 178
Evelyn's POV
"So you'll invite him?" I asked softly. "To the wedding?"
"Yeah." Julian's voice was steadier now. Certain. "Yeah, I'll call him. Tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured at our injuries. "When we're both slightly more coherent. I'll—" He had to stop. Swallow hard. "I'll ask him to come. To be there. To—"
"To be your father instead of just the man who made the worst decision of his life." I finished gently.
"Yes." He pulled me closer. Careful of my ribs but unmistakably protective. "God, when did you become so wise about family relationships? You—the woman who spent five years being trained to have no attachments—"
"I learned from the best." I smiled against his chest. "From a man who taught me that love means refusing to let people hide. That vulnerability is strength. That—" My voice went soft. "That building something is harder than destroying it but infinitely more worthwhile."
Julian was quiet for a moment. Then I felt his chest shake with what might have been a laugh.
"You know what's going to be interesting?" His voice had a note of dark humor. "Putting Nikolai and my father in the same room. Two men who completely fucked up their relationships with their children in spectacularly different ways."
I couldn't help it. I laughed. It hurt my ribs but I couldn't stop.
"Oh god." I pressed my face against his chest. "You're right. That's going to be—" I had to stop. Catch my breath through the pain and the inappropriate humor. "I'm sure they'll have lots to discuss. 'How I Lost My Child: A Comparative Analysis.'"
"'Chapter One: Choosing Principles Over People.'" Julian added. His voice was lighter now. The heavy emotion giving way to something that felt almost like relief. "'Chapter Two: Turning Your Daughter Into A Weapon Because You Didn't Know She Was Your Daughter.'"
"'Chapter Three: Living With Regret For Decades While Your Child Refuses To Speak To You.'" I was fully laughing now. Despite the pain. Despite everything. Because sometimes the only way to deal with tragedy was to find the absurd humor in it.
Julian's arms tightened around me. "We're terrible people. Laughing about our fathers' failures."
"We're survivors." I corrected. "And survivors laugh at things that would break other people. It's how we cope."
"Fair enough." He pressed another kiss to my head. "So. Two fathers at the wedding. Both trying to make amends for catastrophic failures. This should be—"
"Educational." I supplied. "For them, I mean. Let them figure out how to navigate this on their own. We—" I gestured at our injuries. "We have enough to deal with just trying to heal before Thursday."
"Agreed." Julian's voice was firm. "No family mediation sessions while we're both recovering from near-death experiences. They can meet at the wedding. Figure out their own dynamic. We'll be too busy trying to walk down the aisle without limping."
I nodded against his chest. Felt the exhaustion starting to pull at me. The pain medication and emotional intensity catching up.
"Our biggest job right now," I murmured, "is healing fast enough that the guests don't notice we're both held together with bandages and spite."
"And love." Julian's voice was soft. Already half-asleep. "Don't forget the love."
"Never." I let my eyes close. Let myself relax into his embrace. "The love is what's going to get us through this. Through the healing. Through the wedding. Through—" I had to stop. Breathe. "Through building this life we keep talking about."
"Yeah." His breathing was evening out. Sleep pulling him under. "The life where we have fathers who are trying. And each other. And—" His voice was fading. "And hope. Finally. After so much darkness. Hope."
I smiled.
We'd both been so broken. Both been shaped by violence and loss and impossible choices. Both been convinced that love was weakness. That vulnerability meant death. That the only way to survive was to stay armored and alone.
And somehow—through blood and bullets and more pain than either of us should have had to endure—we'd found each other. Had found a way to be whole together. To build something that wasn't just survival but actual living.
In four days I would marry this man. Would stand in front of everyone who mattered—including two fathers who'd failed us in different ways but were trying to do better—and choose love over fear. Vulnerability over armor. Hope over the bitter emptiness that had defined so much of our lives.
And it would be messy. And complicated. And probably involve some limping down the aisle despite our best efforts.
But it would be ours. Real and solid and worth every moment of fear and pain and vulnerability it required.
I pressed closer to Julian. Felt his arms automatically tighten even in sleep. Let myself believe—fully, completely, without reservation—that this was real. That we were building something beautiful from the ruins. That the life we were creating together was worth all the broken ribs and bullet wounds and complicated family dynamics.
That we were finally, finally coming home.
To each other. To ourselves. To the life we deserved.
And as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about my mother. About Julian's mother. About two women who'd loved fiercely and lost everything. Who'd left behind children shaped by their absence. Children who'd spent years convinced that love meant loss. That caring meant weakness.
Children who were now choosing—despite everything, despite all the evidence to the contrary—to believe in love anyway.
I thought they would both be proud.
Not of the weapons we'd become. Not of the violence we'd survived. But of the choice we were making. To build instead of destroy. To hope instead of despair. To love instead of armoring ourselves against the pain.
To be more than what our trauma had made us.
To be human. And whole. And finally, finally free.