The low hum of polite conversation, the gentle clinking of crystal champagne flutes, and the violinist’s soft rendition of Can't Help Falling in Love all died out instantly. It was as if an invisible conductor had signaled an abrupt end to the orchestra.

Behind us, the distant sounds of shouting, slamming car doors, and weeping relatives echoed faintly into the dark, starlit night. A sleek, matte-black Maybach was waiting curbside, its engine idling with a quiet, powerful purr. A driver in a sharp suit immediately stepped out, holding the rear door open for us.

I paused on the gravel pathway, taking a deep breath of the pine-scented mountain air. The heavy knot of tension that had lived in my chest for most of the evening finally dissolved completely.

“You know,” I murmured, looking over at Emmett as he adjusted his suit jacket, “you didn't have to blow up his entire wedding quite so dramatically. A quiet conversation in the hallway would have achieved the exact same result.”

Emmett chuckled, a rich, genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his sharp gray eyes. 🐍

“A quiet conversation?” Emmett shook his head, holding open the car door for me. “Jenna, please. Some people need a gentle nudge to realize they’re falling off a cliff. Other people—like your dear brother—need a tactical airstrike.”

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of my lips. I slid into the leather-lined interior of the car, and Emmett climbed in beside me, closing the door and plunging us into a luxurious, soundproof bubble of quiet comfort.

As the Maybach glided smoothly down the long, winding driveway of the estate, leaving the glittering lights of the venue behind us in the rearview mirror, I let out a long, slow sigh.

“Well,” I said, resting my head back against the plush headrest, “there goes Thanksgiving dinner for the next decade.”

Emmett glanced over at me, a warm, knowing smile touching his lips. “Somehow, I suspect you won't miss the turkey as much as you think.”

“True,” I admitted, turning my gaze to look out the window at the dark, rolling hills of Vermont rushing past in a blur of shadows and moonlight. “Though I am going to miss little Parker. He really wanted that ice-wing dragon.”

Emmett reached out, casually resting his hand over mine on the leather seat. His fingers were warm, steady, and grounding.

“We can hire a professional digital artist to render an ice-wing dragon tomorrow morning,” Emmett said softly. “As part of your next project brief.”

I turned my head to look at him, our eyes meeting in the dim ambient light of the car cabin. The playful spark in his gaze softened into something much deeper, much more genuine.

“You know, Emmett,” I said quietly, “for a billionaire tech titan who supposedly only cares about market capitalization and algorithmic efficiency, you’re remarkably good at dramatic entrances.”

“I learned from the best,” he replied smoothly, lifting my hand and pressing a light, lingering kiss to the back of my knuckles. “After all... Aegis writes the script. I just bring the thunder.”

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years. The ghost of my family’s constant underestimation, the heavy shadow of Nicholas’s narcissism, and the suffocating pressure of trying to fit into a world that didn't understand me—it all felt miles away now.