Chapter 9 - SUNDAY DINNER IN THE LIGHT
One year later.
The crystal chandelier above the grand banquet table sparkled brilliantly, casting warm beams of light across a room filled with laughter, clinking silverware, and the rich, comforting scent of roasted garlic and rosemary.
There were no thirty-two terrified elite guests tonight.
There were no armed enforcers, no fake fiancées, and no hidden dark secrets.
Just family.
At the head of the table sat Gabriel, laughing as he carved a golden roasted turkey, looking completely at peace.
Seated to his immediate right was seventy-eight-year-old Margaret Whitaker, looking healthier and more radiant than I had ever seen her, telling a lively story to a pair of federal judges who were hanging onto her every word.
And seated right beside Gabriel, in the exact chair where Vincent had once presided over a kingdom of shadows, was me.
My wedding ring caught the light of the chandelier with every gesture I made.
The front doors of the mansion chimed softly from the foyer, and the sound of cheerful voices echoed down the hall as more friends from the foundation arrived for our traditional Sunday evening gathering.
Gabriel reached out under the table, finding my hand and interlacing his fingers securely with mine. He gave my hand a gentle, loving squeeze.
He picked up the silver dinner bell from the mahogany surface beside his plate.
He didn't ring it to summon servants. He didn't ring it to enforce obedience.
Instead, he lifted it gently, looked around the table at the people who had survived the storm together, and smiled.
"Dinner is served," Gabriel announced softly.
May you like
He looked at me, his dark eyes shining with a profound, unshakable devotion.
The past was finally at rest. The ghosts had been laid to ground. And the future—bright, open, and entirely our own—stretched out before us like an endless, beautiful horizon.
