The producers had painted them in the most unkind and unflattering of lights. The plotting and plans had gone so far beyond what I’d realized. Addison’s long lunches were with producers of the show to discuss me. In fact, that was how she’d known about Brock all along—she’d been in on it. The internet turned on her in the most brutal and despicable ways. So despicable that it left me empty and sick. And so, the last time I met with the network with my lawyer, I pulled one of the producers aside who I knew from the Femmes and suggested they give her the show I’d refused. They could make it like Dance Moms but for weddings.

Last I heard, she’d accepted. And it made me sleep just a little better at night, knowing I wasn’t the end of her career.

No matter how awful she was, no one deserved that. In some ways, she’d been played too—they’d let her do their dirty work, then cut her loose the second she was a liability.

On the airing of the first episode, my social media exploded overnight, the client requests coming in like a rogue wave. I interviewed brides, chose my favorites, and had not only a stable of wealthy, respectful, kind clients, but I was booked out for the next year. A year. The thought alone was staggering, the need requiring an upgraded office space, the hiring of two assistants, and the acquirement of a handful of interns. The only price had been my humiliation. Kash’s too, although GIFs of him popping Brock in the nose had been circulating the internet since the wedding episode aired. Unsurprisingly, on the public meeting Kash on television, the flower shop found themselves in the midst of a boom. A boom and a lawsuit.

But that was Marcus’s story to tell.

Through it all, Kash had maintained the calm power with which he handled everything. Including me. The upheaval of our lives had been taken in stride because, despite all the chaos and uncertainty before us, one thing was undeniably clear and true—we had each met our match. We knew it in our marrow, but so did everyone who loved us. Mrs. Bennet had officially inducted me into the family with zeal and fervor. She inspected and assessed me too, don’t get me wrong. But she’d seen it from the first, noted the rightness, the clicking together of two pieces to make one, and had already provided lists of old family names we could use for a baby and made it a habit of asking me about my ovulation cycle.