Chapter 72 Zachary

Chapter 72 Zachary
I find out Ivy is back while standing under fake rain in Prague, yelling at a lighting assistant and fixing my brother’s collar at the same time.

James is mid‑scene—tragic, beautiful, soaked—when my phone starts vibrating like it’s about to launch itself off a makeup table. I ignore it. 

Once. Twice.
Then I glance down.

Mama.
Oh.
That’s never casual.

I answer immediately. “Mama?”

“She’s home.”

Everything stops.

The rain machine keeps going. James keeps monologuing. Someone yells “cut”.

“Say that again,” I whisper.

“Ivy is home.”

I laugh. Loud. Unhinged. 

“My Ivy?” I ask, grinning like an idiot. “My actual, real, biological baby sister Ivy?”

“Yes,” Mama says, already emotional. “She’s back. She has been back for a while but I thought it best not to disturb you and James. This work he is doing is very important for his career.”

I clap a hand over my mouth because suddenly I’m smiling so hard my face hurts.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “I knew it. I knew she’d come back to us.”

“She’s strong,” Mama adds. “Very Ivy.”

I don’t even hesitate. “I’m flying home.”

“Zachary—”

“Nope. Not negotiable,” I say cheerfully. “James will survive with a different eyebrow shape for a week.”

James shouts from across the set, “I HEARD THAT.”

I go to hang up but stop.
Because then Mama drops the next bomb.

“I am telling you because it’s her birthday in a few days and wanted to tell you both if you wanted to send a present for her party.”

I stop dead.

“Oh,” I say softly. Then louder, “OH.”

This is not a moment for subtlety.

This is a moment for design.

When me and James get back to the hotel we are staying at I call Mama back within ten minutes.

“Tell me everything,” I demand. “What she likes. What she hates. What she pretends she hates.”

Mama laughs. “She hates dresses.”

I grin. “Excellent.”

“She prefers comfort. Movement. Nothing flashy.”

“Color?”

Mama thinks. “Dark tones. She has a fondness for green. Deep green.”

Emerald.

I don’t sleep.
I can sleep when I am dead.

I sketch on hotel stationery. On napkins. On the back of James’s call sheet (he complains; I ignore him). I build the dress in my head like it’s a love letter stitched together.

Black lace.
Floor‑length.
Fitted—not restrictive.

Long lace sleeves that feel elegant, not fragile. The lace pattern is intentional—subtle vines and florals, strong instead of delicate. Something that moves when she moves.

The back is my favorite part.

A dark green ribbon woven through the lace, adjustable. Tighten it when she wants structure. Loosen it when she wants freedom.

Because Ivy has never belonged in anything that traps her.

And then—sparingly, lovingly—emeralds sewn throughout the gown. Real ones. Tiny. Catching light only when she moves.

Not loud.
Not ornamental.
Alive.

I pack the finished dress into a massive white box lined with tissue, care, and about fifteen years of guilt for not being there sooner.

This isn’t just a birthday present.
It’s a declaration.
Ivy is home.

And if I have anything to say about it—she will never forget how loved she is again.

I pretend I’m calm.

I am absolutely not calm.

I’m standing there with my hands clasped behind my back like a polite guest instead of a vibrating ball of nerves wrapped in a tailored jacket, watching Ivy stare into a box that holds approximately twelve sleepless nights, three flights, and one emotional breakdown in Milan.

No pressure.

She unties the ribbon slowly—too slowly—and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from blurting, JUST OPEN IT, VINE.

God, she looks good today.

Dark brown hair pulled back loosely, a few strands framing her face like they’ve escaped on purpose. Fair skin glowing in the morning light. Dark brown eyes sharp and soft at the same time—the same eyes I remember from childhood, only older now, stronger.

Alive.

I exhale without realizing I’ve been holding my breath.

The lid lifts.

I watch her hands freeze.

Yes.

The black lace spills into view, and for one horrible half‑second I wonder if I misjudged everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s still a dress and she hates dresses and I’ve committed the ultimate sibling betrayal.

Then she lifts it.

Slowly. Carefully. Like it might disappear if she moves too fast.

Her breath catches.

That sound—soft, involuntary—hits me square in the chest.

“Zach…” she whispers.

Oh. That’s it. I’m done. Emotionally ruined.

I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly hyperaware of everyone watching. “Okay, listen, before you say anything—if you hate it, I fully accept dramatic rejection. I will cry, but I will accept it.”

She doesn’t look at me yet. She’s too busy running her fingers over the lace, over the long sleeves, over the emeralds sewn so carefully they barely announce themselves unless the light hits just right.

She sees the back.

The ribbon.

Her shoulders lift as she inhales sharply.

“You made this… for me.”

“Every stitch,” I say quietly, all jokes momentarily gone.

Her eyes finally lift to mine, glassy and bright. “I hate dresses.”

“I know,” I say gently. “That’s why I made one that won’t fight you.”

Her laugh comes out shaky, halfway to a sob, and I feel something in my chest loosen—like a knot that’s been there for years finally remembered how to breathe.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

Relief hits me so hard my knees almost buckle.

“Good,” I say quickly, pointing at the dress. “Because Plan B involved me pretending it was actually a very expensive table runner.”

Edward makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like he’s choking on emotion. “Wow. He won.”

William, stoic as ever, nods once. “You did well.”

I preen just a little. I am not immune to praise.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement.

Rose.

She hasn’t moved since the box opened. Her smile is still there, technically, but it’s brittle now—cracked at the edges. Her eyes flick from the dress to Ivy, then to me, and something sharp and ugly flashes there before she reins it in.

“That’s quite extravagant,” she says lightly.

I tilt my head, studying her the way I study faces for a living. “It’s a birthday gift.”

Mama turns cool as ice. “For my daughter.”

Rose stands abruptly, chair scraping softly. “Excuse me.”

She leaves.
The door closes.

I look back at Ivy, who’s folding the dress with reverent care, hands gentle, heart wide open.

I didn’t do this to make a point.

But I won’t pretend I’m not satisfied with the outcome.

I step closer and lower my voice. “I wanted you to have something that belongs to you. Not the family. Not the expectations. Just you.”

She looks up at me, eyes shining. “You did.”

I grin, easy and real. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere again.”

As the room fills with chatter—Mama already planning fittings, Edward scheming gifts, William watching quietly—I stay right where I am, front row to my sister’s joy.

Worth every mile.
Worth every stitch.
Worth everything.