28. DAHLIA HARPER

"Larsen! I didn't answer your call just to hear you roast me," Dad growled, pressing the speaker button on his phone with a bit too much force. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed—classic signs that Uncle Rhys was, once again, doing what he did best: getting under Dad's skin.

From the other end, Uncle Rhys's laughter spilled through the phone like static electricity—buzzing, bright, and obnoxiously delighted.

He'd called the moment the news broke, wasting no time to throw verbal jabs with the finesse of someone who knew exactly where to poke. And poke. And poke.

"Dad," I whispered, leaning toward him, "I have a meeting with my publicist."

He glanced at me, the wrinkle between his brows smoothing slightly. "Sorry," he muttered, lowering the volume.

I turned back toward the sleek oak conference table and exhaled. "Please, continue, Mrs. Castillo."

"You can call me Sloane," she said warmly, a practiced smile touching her lips as she tucked a loose strand of blonde hair back into her meticulously arranged bun. The sunlight streaming in through the high-rise windows lit up the sharp angles of her cheekbones. "We'll be family soon enough. It might take you a while to call me Aunt Sloane, but I'm okay with that."

I gave a polite smile in return. "It will take some time."

"Sure it will," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "But I appreciate the formalities. Now, let's get down to business."

There was a shift in her demeanor—a flicker of sharpness in her pale blue eyes as she set her notepad on the table. She meant business, and I was grateful.

"I was thinking," I began, "that I should announce my engagement in about two months. Until then, I can make a few public appearances with Marco—let the media do their thing, spin it into a whirlwind romance. That way, it doesn't scream arranged marriage."

"A solid plan," she said, jotting down notes with a pen that clicked like punctuation. "I'd suggest announcing it about a month after you've moved in with Marco. By then, the 'private relationship' narrative will sound believable. I can even leak a few cozy photos of the two of you to tabloids—make it look accidental."

"Sounds good," I said, genuinely impressed by how effortlessly she managed this web of optics.

Then she paused, lifting her head slightly. "Now, about the inevitable gold-digging accusations..."

Before she could finish, Dad's voice cut through the room again.

"Stop calling me a word-eater, Larsen!"

Sloane blinked.

I sighed. "Give me a minute."

Rising from my seat, I walked over to Dad, whose phone was now shaking slightly in his hand—either from his grip or his frustration.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Rhys Larsen is pushing every damn button I have."

I held out my hand. "Give me the phone."

Dad didn't hesitate. I raised it to my ear.

"—Wait till Camilla grows up and starts dating? Yeah, should've thought about Lia, too!" Uncle Rhys laughed, completely in his element.

"Hello, Godfather," I said, layering just enough sarcasm over affection to disarm him.

"Lia! Where'd your dad go—never mind. Congratulations, sweetheart."

"Thanks. But if you don't stop aggravating him, I swear I'll tell Aunt B who really shattered her favorite teacup because someone was jealous of the attention she gave Meadows."

Silence.

Then, a sheepish cough. "Noted. Let me congratulate him properly."

I handed the phone back to Dad. "All good now. And don't look at me like that. He loves me, that's why he listened."

I returned to my seat.

"For those who'll accuse me of gold-digging," I said to Sloane, "I really don't care. And I know you can handle it."

"Easily," she said with a small smile. "You've got enough personal wealth to drown that narrative. It won't stick. We've covered the major points. Now..." She paused, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Let me start spinning some rumors for you two."

There was something almost regal about her posture—poised, self-assured, with a quiet intensity that could make a room hush. She was beautiful, yes, but not in a way that needed to be announced. More like the kind of beauty that felt carved from marble—classic, unshakable.

"Until next time," she said.

"Looking forward to it," I replied.

After the meeting, I closed my laptop with a soft click and let the silence settle around me. The city buzzed outside the window, but inside, the apartment had a quiet warmth to it—safe, calm. I sank into the velvet cushions of the living room couch, finally letting myself exhale.

Mom appeared a moment later, carrying two glasses of her infamous wheatgrass smoothies. She handed me one with a soft smile and sat beside me, curling her legs up beneath her like she always did.

"Where's Dad?" I asked, taking a cautious sip. Earthy, bitter, strangely comforting.

"In his office," she said, suppressing a grin. "Sulking."

I chuckled. "Uncles are giving him a real-time breakdown, huh?"

"They are. Rhys and josh haven't let him breathe since the announcement." She lifted her empty glass and placed it on the coffee table. "By the way, Ava wants to photograph your wedding."

I raised a brow. "She's not going to enjoy the wedding if she's working through it."

"No, no," Mom waved a hand. "Not during the event. She wants to shoot the engagement portraits and the wedding day photos—the official ones. The couple's story. You know the drill."

"Oh, in that case, absolutely. She's the best photographer in America. It'll be magic with her behind the lens."

"Good." Mom's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Call her this evening and tell her your ideas—style, mood, timing. She'll need some lead time."

"I will," I promised, curling my feet beneath me. "This still feels surreal, though. All of it. The wedding. The planning. Me, getting married."

"I know," she said, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. "I'm going to cry like a baby at your wedding."

"I might beat you to it," I laughed. "I still remember the first time I met Marco. I thought he was such an arrogant, cold-blooded jerk. And now..." I shook my head, grinning. "Now I'm marrying that same arrogant jerk."

"We never know where life will take us," Mom said wistfully. "Did I know I'd fall for my landlord? Or fake-date him before actually falling in love? Look where I ended up."

I leaned my head against her shoulder.

"I'm designing all your outfits, by the way," she continued, "except for the wedding gown."

I pulled away slightly to look at her. "Why not the wedding one?"

"I'm not a bridal designer, sweetheart. I can do everything else—engagement, rehearsal dinner, even your bachelorette but your big white dress? Nope, way too out of my league."

I nodded slowly, her words settling warmly in my chest. "I'm excited to go wedding dress shopping with you all. It's going to be... I don't know. Special."

"It will be," she said, wrapping her arms around me. Her embrace was soft, warm, safe. The kind of hug that anchored you when everything else in the world felt like it might float away.

"I'm happy," I whispered into her shoulder.

She pulled back and smiled at me. "You look it."

And I was. Truly. In a way I hadn't felt in years. Not the surface-level joy from achievements or the fleeting high of success, but something deeper—like standing at the edge of something new and knowing, for once, that it felt right.

Happy. Happy and happy. That's what I feel these days.