Page 73 of The Marriage Clause

"Get out," I say.

"Can't." Levi pours. "Everly has a timeline and my job is to deliver you downstairs in forty-seven minutes or face consequences she described as 'creative and permanent.' She might only be five foot three on a good day, but I'm not taking my chances with the tiny dictator."

"She should be running this family instead of me," I say.

"She does," all of my brothers including Damien say at the same time. They aren't wrong.

Colston takes out a hidden flask from behind his tux and takes a pull off the container and then hands it to me. "She's terrifying today."

"She's terrifying every day," Damien mutters.

A shot of whatever Colston's got isn't a bad idea. I tip it back—the taste of whiskey hitting my tongue. Then I hand it back.

Levi's eyes light up. "Oh, you should've seen her this morning. Rockmore showed up to check on the arch and she told him—and I am quoting directly—'If you touch a single flower, I will disassemble your entire net worth petal by petal.'"

"She's efficient with threats," Damien says, and there's something in his jaw.

"She's efficient with everything," Colston agrees.

More brothers arrive. Christian in a perfectly pressed charcoal suit, hair combed back, looking exactly like the attorney who drew up the contract that got us here. Zayne, who someone let near a camera crew this morning and has already given an unauthorized soundbite to a lifestyle reporter Everly is going to murder him for.

Wes enters last. Doesn't announce himself. Just takes a position near the window, glass of water in hand, eyes scanning the room like he's cataloging the positions of every piece on the board. He nods at me once.

It's enough.

Archer isn't here. He'll be downstairs already, having appeared from whatever shadow he inhabits when humans aren't watching. I'll see him at the arch. A single nod. His security team is already in place.

"Alright." Levi raises his glass. "To the first Kauffman brother dumb enough to get married."

"To the trust clause," Christian says dryly.

"To Dad's ghost," Colston adds, "who is probably watching from hell and taking notes."

Nobody disagrees.

"To Aria," Damien says. Quiet. Cutting through the noise the way he always does—reading a room no one else even noticed shifted.

The room goes still for half a beat.

To Aria.

I drink.

The compound lawn has been transformed into something I don't recognize.

Three hundred white chairs face the water. An arch draped in white roses, orchids, ranunculus, peonies and trailing greenery frames the view of the Sound beyond. String lights thread through the surrounding trees—unnecessary in the afternoon light, but they'll catch fire when the sun drops during the reception.

Three hundred guests fill the chairs. Family friends. Board members. Business associates. A strategic handful of press in a cordoned section that Everly is managing with the cold efficiency of a border patrol agent.

I'm standing at the arch with Damien at my shoulder and Christian beside him. The officiant—a retired federal judge who owes my family more favors than anyone should ow another person—stands to my left.

Board members from the trust are in the third row. Wallendorf. Chesney. The one whose name I can never remember who always smells like pipe tobacco and disapproves of everything.

They're watching, and they're supposed to believe this is real.

The string quartet shifts to something classical that Everly selected. Something respectable for a wedding but something a little unexpected because it wouldn't be an Everly Kauffman event without a surprise.

And then the guests stand.