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What I hadn't told him—what I'd discovered through quiet observation—was that my approach to law itself had fundamentally changed. Where once I'd viewed cases as puzzles to be solved through cold logic and strategic maneuvering, I now found myself considering the human elements, the stories behind the contracts and litigation.
"You've gone soft, Grosvenor," Malcolm had observed with what might have been grudging admiration. "And somehow, it's made you more effective."
Perhaps that was the most startling development of all.
My win rate hadn't diminished—if anything, it had improved. Juries responded to authenticity in ways that pure intellectual manipulation could never achieve. Opposing counsel found themselves disarmed by a version of Edward Grosvenor who acknowledged that law was ultimately about people, not just precedent.
What good was professional success if you had no one genuine to share it with? But now, every victory felt meaningful because Lili would be there to celebrate it, every challenge manageable because we'd face it together.
I'd accepted, naturally, but the achievement felt different than I'd anticipated. It wasn't the culmination of a solitary climb to professional pinnacle—it was simply one element of a life that had grown infinitely richer and more complex.
But perhaps the most remarkable transformation hadn't been in my professional approach at all—it had been watchingLili flourish in an environment that had initially seemed so foreign to her Texas sensibilities.
"You know what I realized?" I'd said to Lili one evening as we'd reviewed contracts in the study while the twins slept peacefully in their bassinets nearby. "I spent years thinking that success meant having complete control over my environment. Turns out, the most successful thing I've ever done was letting you completely upend everything I thought I wanted."
She'd looked up from the Jackson's Garden Centers renewal agreement, pencil tucked behind her ear and reading glasses perched on her nose, and smiled in that way that still made my chest tighten with wonder.
"Sugar," she'd replied, "sometimes the best things happen when you stop trying to micromanage the universe."
Lili's business acumen had proven even more formidable than I'd suspected during those early days when I'd watched her save a charity auction with nothing but quick thinking and genuine charm. Gardens & Home Television had not merely survived the transition to British market—it had thrived in ways that made our initial projections look almost conservative.
"The Jackson's partnership is expanding to include three more regional chains," she'd announced during our monthly business review, her enthusiasm infectious as she'd spread contracts across the dining room table. "And the BBC is interested in developing a proper gardening program. Apparently, Americans teaching Brits about gardening is either revolutionary or completely insane, and they're curious to see which."
I'd studied the figures with the same attention to detail I applied to corporate acquisitions, marveling at the growth trajectory she'd achieved through what appeared to be pure instinct and genuine passion for her work.
"These numbers are extraordinary," I'd told her, and I'd meant it. "You've built something remarkable here."
"We've built something remarkable," she'd corrected, her hand finding mine across the scattered papers. "Your legal expertise, my media experience, and apparently enough stubborn determination between us to convince people that garden tools deserve more respect than they've been getting."
The proof was in the numbers that even Malcolm couldn't argue with—revenue up 300%, market share expanded across three countries, and a waiting list of potential partners that read like a who's who of European retail.
The truth was more complex than either of us had initially understood. Lili's success hadn't come despite her outsider status in British media—it had come because of it. Her American directness, combined with genuine expertise and an ability to make complex concepts accessible, had filled a gap in the market that established British presenters hadn't even recognized existed.
"You know what the real secret is?" she'd said one afternoon after taping three program segments in a single day. "People want to believe that growing things is possible, even if they've never successfully kept a houseplant alive. Hope sells better than fear, and gardening is basically hope with dirt under your fingernails."
Watching her transform from a woman living in a guest suite and selling tools on late-night television to someone who commanded respect in boardrooms and production meetings had been like witnessing a flower bloom—beautiful, natural, and somehow inevitable once you understood the conditions were right.
The logistics of planning a double wedding had proved almost as complex as negotiating international mergers, though considerably more entertaining.
The dining room at Grosvenor Manor had been transformed into mission control, with charts, timelines, and vendor contracts covering every available surface.
Cece had appointed herself as unofficial coordinator, appearing daily with color-coded binders and an endless supply of enthusiasm that somehow made even the most complex arrangements seem manageable.
"Right," Daphne had announced during one particularly intense planning session, brandishing a color-coded seating chart like a battle standard while Cece nodded approvingly from her position surrounded by flower catalogs. "If we seat Great Aunt Millicent next to Uncle Roderick, there's a seventy percent chance of an argument about fox hunting before the fish course. But if we separate them by more than three tables, Mother will consider it a slight to the Pemberton branch of the family."
"The solution is obvious." I studied the chart with analytical precision. "We seat Aunt Millicent with the Andertons. She'll be too busy being charmed by Rose's stories about Texas to remember any grievances against Uncle Roderick."
Lili had looked up from her own stack of vendor contracts, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Are y'all seriously strategizing your wedding seating like it's the Treaty of Versailles?"
"Every family gathering is essentially diplomatic negotiations," James had observed from his position at the head of the table, where he'd been cross-referencing flower arrangements with photographic sight lines. "The key isensuring that everyone feels properly honored without creating opportunities for historical grievances to resurface."
"In Texas," Lili had said, "we just put everyone at long tables and let them sort themselves out. If somebody starts trouble, their Mama handles it."
"Fascinating approach," I'd murmured, making a note in my planning folder. "Though I suspect the dynamics are somewhat different when three of the guests hold hereditary peerages and two others have been feuding since 1987 over a property boundary dispute."
The remarkable thing had been watching how naturally our different approaches had complemented each other.
Lili's instinct for authentic warmth had softened the edges of formal British protocol, while our family's experience with complex social dynamics had provided structure for what could have been overwhelming chaos.