I grit my teeth, revisited by a hint of the nerves I had earlier. The last round of permits filed with the city caught the eye of a clerk with a particular fondness for Pemberley and a friend at an architecture magazine. A few days later I was offered an interview about the remodel. As luck would have it, there was a design conference going on in Newark this week, where a contributing writer and onetime mentor to me would be presenting. I’d been in touch with my old professor during renovations but hadn’t seen her since before I went to LA. Touring Pemberley with her this afternoon was an absolution I didn’t know I still needed.

“Exciting. Unreal. It helped that it was conducted by a friendly face.”

“I look forward to reading it. Your parents”—he grins around the word—“are very excited.”

I snort out a laugh. “My parents are well on their way to adopting the errant adult children of oligarchs.” I release him to look down at the frontmost island, where Esteban is distributing vodka shots to my parents’ table. One island over, a table of Russians raise their glasses, several making a gesturing motion to their new friends. At the neighboring island on the opposite side of the catwalk, members of the construction crew sit at one table, Chloe’s friends at another. Both groups raise their glasses as well. My parents hesitate, but Gales’s folks go for it, and my mom’s sister laughs, she and my uncle joining in. To my surprise, it’s suddenly bottoms up all around.

Jane’s parents and brother join my family’s island, Charles in tow, which inspires further enthusiasm from the Russians. Esteban retreats, presumably for more vodka. Chloe and Gales step aside on the catwalk to let him pass, then are rushed by the crew in from California, exchanging hugs.

That feeling from downstairs washes over me again. The people I care most about are in this building, a space that’s the actualization of three years of work and a dream I’d all but given up on. It’s where so many of those people have the opportunity to see their own dreams play out, onstage and off, or simply find the stability to continue pursuing their passion.

This isn’t Meryton. And it never will be. It’s so much more than that.

I blink back the tears, throat going tight. “Thank you for believing in me.”

“Thank you for trusting me with your vision.” His smile is soft. “I have something for you.” He takes my hand and leads me to the desk. On the much-celebrated surface is a box about the size of the one Andrea’s tablet came in, only black velvet instead of white cardboard.

Darcy beckons me toward it. “Go ahead.”

I run my fingers over the soft exterior, unsure what to expect as I lift the lid—