Page 120 of Six Month Wife

“You okay?” I ask gently, nudging him with my shoulder.

He turns to me, his lips curving into a slow, genuine smile. “I think so,” he says. “It’s just… I can’t believe it. Roger was something else. I wish you could have known him.”

“I love that he did this,” I admit, a laugh bubbling out of me. “What touches me the most is they studied us and they saw what I see in you.”

His gaze softens, and he lifts our joined hands to his lips, brushing a light kiss over my knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For coming. For trusting me.”

I squeeze his hand. “And you didn’t give up on me. Even when I made it hard.” He pulls my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

I lean into him, the weight of the past month finally sliding off my shoulders.

What started as a lie turned into something too real to fake.

And tonight, I’m done pretending.

Epilogue

ADAIR

One Year Later

The Palm Beach Clublooks different now. Or maybe I do. My shoulders don’t clench pulling into the drive. My chest doesn’t buzz with that low-grade impostor syndrome I used to carry like a purse. Tonight, there’s a slow exhale and the hum of excitement in my stomach that only shows up when Parker’s waiting inside.

The lanterns lining the path used to feel like a cover story. Now they remind me what it took to get here.

I ease into the circular drive, the building coming into view as I pull in. The white stone, manicured hedges, and columns are tall enough to make an entrance feel like a ceremony.

By the time I glide under the portico, the front doors are in full view. Oversized, arched, and exactly the kind of extra this place is known for. Still makes me roll my eyes alittle, but with the kind of affection you reserve for family, whether they’re assigned or chosen.

Before the valet gets to me, I crack the window a little to let the humid summer night in. Salt, lemon blossoms, and some expensive cologne hit me like a pre-party appetizer. The mix rushes in fast and settles deep, grounding me in a way my therapist would call “progress.”

The handsome man, all tuxedo and white gloves, opens my door. I step out, smooth my dress, and sling my bag over my shoulder.

A year ago, I would’ve rather swallowed glass than voluntarily show up here. This was a world I didn’t belong to, but I kept coming anyway.

Everything’s different now.

This place used to shrink me. Now it lifts me. Not because I changed my outfit or started using phrases likecurated brand experience.It’s because I earned every damn part of the life I’m walking into.

The valet nods as he takes the keys. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Carpenter.”

I flash him a smile. “If there’s champagne inside, I will.”

He grins and gives a tiny bow. It's unnecessary, but kind of adorable. I turn toward the doors, heels clicking against the stone like punctuation.

Citrine isn’t a hope anymore—it’s a whole thing.

My products are flying off the shelves, thanks to a combination of cosmic events, including Rose and the formidable Evelyn Thatcher and her terrifying Rolodex. I sleep less, swear more, and smell like rosemary toner most days.

Not only are my products carried in thirty-seven of fifty states and three countries, but Citrine’s flagship location here in Palm Beach is a full-blown destination now. It'sexactly how I envisioned it. It’s a juice bar, spa, and holistic market rolled into one.

Parker’s killing it in general surgery. I’m killing it in the personal care space. And together, we’re basically an orgasmic power couple with excellent cardio routines and too many Google Calendars.

He’s also partnered with Bets on a few real estate projects—because apparently, Parker doesn’t know how to sit still unless I’m on top of him. He’s nothing like his father, thank God. No smoke, no mirrors. Just quiet, intentional work. Maybe he gets that from Roger—building things that last without needing to be applauded for it.

I pull my phone from my bag, just in case he texted again. Nothing new. Just the one from this morning.