"You made it," Maddy breathes, throwing her arms around Ivy despite the fact that she's covered in a fine layer of airport dust and international travel exhaustion.
"Of course I made it. Though I may have left my luggage in three different countries." Ivy surveys the barn, taking in the fairy lights, the lingering fog effects, and the general atmosphere of celebration mixed with triumph. "This is beautiful. Very small-town defeats corporate empire chic."
Her eyes land on Richard, who's frozen near the exit like someone caught between fight and flight instincts. The temperature in her expression drops several degrees.
"Richard," she says, her voice carrying the steel that comes from watching someone you care about get their heart broken. "I see you decided to grace us with your presence after all."
Richard's expression shifts, edged now with caution. Ivy has that effect. She might look like she stepped off the pages of a society magazine, but her instincts are pure war correspondent, and her brand of diplomacy could humble a United Nations envoy, particularly when wedding florals are at stake. And she's nothing if not loyal. She held Savvy through heartbreak,salvaged a wedding nearly undone by the man standing in front of her, and she's not about to let history repeat itself.
"Ms. Pratt," Richard says, his tone smooth but watchful. "It's good to see you."
"Oh, I wouldn't have missed this for anything. Not after everything you put my friends through." There's a pause where Ivy seems to be deciding how diplomatic she wants to be. "You know, I've been following your work from Italy. An impressive legal strategy. Textbook corporate intimidation, executed with genuine artistry."
The compliment hangs in the air, and I can't tell if Ivy's being sincere or setting up for a sharper blow.
"But," she adds, "you made one big mistake. You treated this like a business deal. But this isn't a company, it's a family. And families don't back down from pressure."
Richard doesn't respond right away. His mouth pulls into a tight line, unreadable, but his gaze sharpens, maybe even curious.
"And how do families respond, in your experience?"
"With fierce loyalty and creativity under pressure. A community that closes ranks when it counts." Ivy gestures around the barn, taking in everything we've built. "You could've bought out a business. Intimidated someone alone. But you can't buy your way into belonging, and you sure as hell can't threaten your way there either."
"I wasn't trying to belong," Richard says, though his voice carries a hesitation that betrays him. Like the thought never occurred to him until now, but maybe it matters more than he realized.
"Weren't you?" Ivy tilts her head, studying him with that steady, unflinching look that makes most people squirm. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you spent anawful lot of energy trying to prove you were stronger than a place you could have joined."
The silence that follows lands with weight, thick with unspoken possibilities.
Henry, who's been watching this unfold with growing fascination, steps forward.
"She has a point," he says. "When I was young, you taught me the best acquisitions weren't hostile takeovers, they were partnerships that benefited everyone involved. When did that change?"
Richard turns toward his son, meets his eyes for the first time in a long while, and in that stillness, a tangle of old and complicated truths rises to the surface.
Thirty years of ambition and the disappointment of missed dinners and pride swallowed whole. A father who taught strategy instead of softness. A son who learned to read the fine print instead of the room. And in this moment, all of that stretches between them, fragile as glass and revealing.
"The Morrison Center," Richard says finally, "was never about the money."
"I know," Henry replies. "It was about me choosing a future you didn't create. A place you couldn't direct."
"And you," Richard continues, turning to me, "were the best attorney I ever trained. When you walked away, it felt like losing my son all over again."
The words land with the gravity of truth. Around us, conversations taper off. People sense the mood has turned. This isn't the end of a battle, it's the start of what comes next. Raw. Uncertain. Possibly redemptive.
"Dad," Henry says, and that single word feels carved from years of silence and strain. "What if instead of tearing down what we've built, you joined us to make it stronger?"
"I'm not sure I know how to do that anymore," Richard says. His voice no longer carries authority, doubt.
Maddy steps in before the moment can collapse under its own weight. Her voice is clear, bright with the conviction that's carried us through every setback. "Then it's a good thing this town believes in teaching people how to stay. Not show up, not look important, but root themselves. Commit."
She meets Richard's eyes, steady and unflinching. Not extending blind forgiveness but offering a door that hasn't been locked.
"You don't earn your place here by being perfect," she says. "You earn it by showing up, even when you've messed up. By learning how to belong instead of trying to control."
Richard doesn't speak right away. He looks around the barn, taking in the soft glow of the lights, the laughter beginning to return in pockets, the quiet strength of people who chose to believe in each other.
He doesn't nod. Doesn't agree. But he stays.
