This didn’t surprise me. Lewis had mentioned it long ago, in the quiet aftermath of watching me nearly bleed out following the twins’ birth — his voice low and certain, carrying that unshakable Alpha finality that meant the decision was already made and wouldn’t be revisited. He had sworn he would never put me through that kind of pain again.

That was fine. We already had Everett and Everly, and I had no regrets left worth carrying.

I placed the document back exactly where I found it and pretended I had never seen it.

The wedding dress had been altered multiple times by now. I was even thinner than I’d been before the twins came, and no amount of careful eating or rest over these past months had fully returned me to what I once was. Something had shifted in me permanently — not broken exactly, just changed in the way certain experiences change you, rearranging what’s underneath without announcing it.

For a long time I couldn’t even look at wedding dresses without my chest tightening. The trailing hems, the white fabric, the veil — all of it used to make my pulse spike with something close to dread. From Wisteria’s endless scheming to the night I was left bleeding on the floor, white gowns had never looked white to me. They had always looked red.

Now two dresses hung before me. One white. One red.

The white one had been prepared over a year ago, waiting patiently through everything that had made it impossible to reach. The red was newly made, custom from scratch. Lewis wanted to give us two weddings — two different styles, two complete chances to rewrite what we had lost in another life and never properly mourned.

When I stepped out in the white gown, the staff went quiet before the compliments began arriving all at once. "Mrs. Hale, I mean this — you are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen." I turned toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back. The makeup had erased the pallor from my skin, and the small red beauty mark at the center of my brow gave my face something almost otherworldly, something that didn’t look entirely like the person I saw in ordinary mirrors on ordinary mornings. The dress itself was simple — no heavy embellishments, nothing ornate, just something light and airy, the fabric so delicate it moved like petals caught in a slow breeze. The hem had snagged slightly at the edge, and before anyone could crouch to fix it, a familiar voice cut through the room.

"I got it."

Julian knelt and carefully straightened the gown with hands that were steadier than his expression. When he stood back up, his eyes were red at the edges.

I remembered. In our past life, Wisteria had worn my wedding dress — had stood in it with ownership and ease — and when I protested, the Sanders pack had closed ranks against me without hesitation, called me dramatic, said I was making something out of nothing. Malcom had slapped me. And Julian had stood with his arm around Wisteria, comforting her, while I watched from the edge of the room like a ghost at my own celebration, invisible and already erased.

This time, he could only stand at the edge and watch my happiness from a distance. The reversal was quiet and complete.

When Lewis reached me, he dropped to one knee with a ring held open in his hand. "Riley," he said, his voice low and entirely steady, "will you marry me?"

I covered my mouth with both hands.

We had already signed the certificate. We had children together, had survived things together that most people never face. And still, somehow, this undid me completely.

"Say yes! Say yes!" The voice broke through the stillness of the room, and I turned to find our family and friends packed into every available corner of the fitting space, watching us with faces lit from within.

Memories from both lives rushed in simultaneously — the promise he had made me, that when he returned victorious he would marry me properly, the way I deserved. I had died before I ever got to see that day arrive. I had carried the unfulfilled weight of it into another life without fully knowing I was carrying it.

Tears blurred everything. "Yes," I said. "I do."

He rose and pulled me into him, and we held each other under the eyes of everyone we loved, the room warm and full and exactly what it was supposed to be.

"We’ve been together this long," I murmured into his shoulder. "You didn’t have to do all of this."

Lewis laughed softly against my hair. "You’ll have everything others have. Every single part of it. A proposal. A wedding. All of it."

He wasn’t going to let me miss a single moment that was rightfully mine.

"Riley, I’ll make up for everything we lost." He said it quietly, like a vow inside the vow.

In the middle of all that warmth, I noticed Julian slip quietly out of the room without drawing attention to himself. A few minutes later, Eleanor followed after him. I watched the door close and said nothing.

As the wedding countdown continued, an unease settled into my chest that I couldn’t quite name or locate. I told myself it was nerves — the ordinary kind, the kind any bride carries in the days before. But some older, quieter part of me wondered if the shadows of my past life hadn’t fully released their hold yet, whether something unfinished was still waiting patiently in the margins.

Lena had come with her children, and watching the two little ones tear through the space with unstoppable energy made time feel strange and tender at once. She crouched beside them and said gently, "This is your sister." Their small voices rang out together — hello, sis — and something in me melted without warning. I knelt and touched their heads, marveling at how soft their cheeks were, how I had only ever seen them in photographs until now. They were even more precious in person than any image had managed to capture.

They pushed up on their tiptoes, straining to peek into the crib where Everly slept.

Lena lifted them both and explained with careful patience, "Those are your sister’s babies. You’re their little uncles. You have to protect them well." One of the boys reached out and poked Everly’s cheek with one careful finger — gentle, curious, entirely reverent.

It was exactly what I had been wanting to do myself.