After All

Epilogue

Months had passed since the night in the garden when Monica had said yes to Gen's proposal.

Time, relentless and patient, had done what violence never could. The Marino estate had been rebuilt stone by stone, wall by wall, not just restored to its former grandeur but subtly transformed. Cracks once left visible as reminders of loss had been sealed. Burn marks scrubbed away. The garden paths repaired, replanted, and reshaped.

Yet not everything was erased.

Some scars were kept on purpose.

The estate now carried a quiet dignity—less a fortress, more a home. Guards still patrolled the perimeter, but they did so without the old tension in their shoulders. The war with Tai Hun Kwai, the Serranos, the Castellanos—all of it had left its mark, but it had also forged something new.

The Marinos were no longer just survivors.

They were whole again.

The day of Monica and Gen's wedding dawned clear and impossibly bright, as if the sky itself had decided to grant them mercy.

Sunlight spilled over the estate, warming marble and stone, catching on the leaves of the garden trees. Jasmine vines climbed trellises near the ceremony grounds, their scent drifting lazily through the air. Roses—white, pale pink, and soft gold—were in full bloom, petals trembling in the morning breeze.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.

Inside the mansion, the atmosphere buzzed with controlled chaos.

Servants moved swiftly but quietly. Florists adjusted arrangements for the third time. A nervous cousin paced a hallway clutching a ring box before being gently redirected. Music drifted faintly from the garden as musicians tuned their instruments.

And in the east wing, behind a closed door—

Monica stood in front of a tall mirror, staring at her reflection as if she were meeting herself for the first time.

Her wedding gown was simple, elegant, and unmistakably her. Soft ivory lace flowed down her frame, delicate but strong, fitted without being restrictive. The sleeves brushed her wrists lightly, and the veil—light as breath—rested against her dark hair, pinned carefully in place.

She lifted her hands slowly, flexing her fingers.

They were trembling.

"Breathe," she whispered to herself.

Behind her, chairs scraped gently as her sisters and cousins shifted.

Amy sat perched on the edge of a vanity, smiling far too knowingly. Rio leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes bright. Kara hovered close, hands clasped, clearly trying not to cry before the ceremony even started.

"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," Amy said gently.

Monica laughed under her breath. "It feels harder than that."

Rio tilted her head. "Harder than surviving three attempted assassinations?"

Monica glanced at her reflection again. "Yes."

Kara stepped forward and took Monica's hand, squeezing it. "You're allowed to be scared," she said softly. "This is the good kind."

Monica nodded, swallowing.

The door opened quietly.

Kanna stepped inside.

The room shifted instantly.

She was dressed in deep blue, elegant and understated, her presence calm and grounding. Her eyes softened the moment they landed on Monica.

For a long second, she didn't speak.