As of this moment...Well, as of any moment when the Queen of the North was somewhere, Sansa Stark was the most senior lady in Highgarden. And, as such, certain things were required of her. Terras understood that. While Sansa was a most unconventional Queen, she still very much was the Queen, which meant that the well-fare of an ailing member of a long-lost family—especially one who could threaten her hold over her kingdom—was very much her concern.

But still, with Tyrion's promises and Ser Brienne's fears and The Three-Eyed Raven's warnings swirling about in his mind, the sight of her sitting vigil outside of the long-lost Tyrell's chambers was enough to stab through his veins with sharp blades of ice.

He just couldn't decide if those blades were sharpened by jealousy or some kind of protective instinct.

Much of the assembled Westerosi court had made their way here, to this part of the castle, to collect gossip and discuss what the arrival of the long believed dead Willas Tyrell would mean for peace and the future of Westeros. Terras stood at the far end of the hallway, watching the comings and goings and whisperings quiet reverence.

All the while, he could feel his brother's presence like the hot wind off of a fire, wrapping around his neck and threatening to choke him. It surely didn't escape Alcander's notice that most of Terras' attention settled squarely on Sansa's shoulders. Terras watched every twitch of her cheeks, every flutter of her eyelashes, trying to read emotions that were not there, trying to glean secrets that she would not share with him.

For the first time since arriving in Highgarden, Terras could no longer wear his lighthearted mask of ease. It was hard to play the devil-may-care prince when the devils might have finally arrived.

After too long, Alcander cleared his throat. "Brother. I am—"

"Please don't say another word about my duty," Terras intoned.

"I wasn't going to. I was going to say I'm worried about you. I've never seen you like this before. Is it true what they say about him? Is he really Sansa's long-lost betrothed?"

Tyrion had been the first to arrive when the soldiers carried Willas' body into the Keep. He'd filled Terras in on a vague outline of the particulars, the words rushing out as he tried to keep one step ahead of this sudden development. The words tasted like ash as he repeated them. Such simple words to carry such years of trauma for Sansa. "From what I can glean, yes. She was meant to marry him before the old Lord of the Vale, Baelish, rearranged everything to his whims. After Willas, she was to marry Loras Tyrell, then Tyrion, then the mad Bolton who took over Winterfell."

"You worry that he will steal her away from you?"

"She is not a thing, Alcander. She cannot be stolen."

He'd snapped the words, harsher than he'd intended. Mostly because he wasn't just talking about Alcander anymore. He was trying to remind himself. His growing feelings for The Queen in the North did not make her his property or something for him to own. If he cared for her, then her happiness was the only thing that mattered. Even if she found that happiness with Willas Tyrell.

He sorted through the words of Brienne's warnings, and for the first time, he considered a dangerous proposition: what if the danger coming for Sansa Stark wasn't the machinations of Tyrion or the sudden arrival of a long-dead Tyrell? What if he was the danger, and he didn't even know it?

"Apologies," Alcander said, touching his hand to Terras' shoulder in a sign of apology. "That was the wrong choice of words. Let me rephrase: do you worry that she will fall in love with him instead of you? Is that why you are torn this way?"

"No. I am torn this way because I know…" His voice hitched against his will as his eyes settled upon the steeled porcelain of Sansa's cheeks. "I know that she should choose him. She must choose him."

"What do you mean?"

Gods, it all made sense now. The Three-Eyed Raven's prophecy had been opaque, but now, it seemed as clear to him as Dornish glass. Willas was the one meant to be at Sansa's side; Terras was the threat. After all, they could never be together. A future for the Prince of Dorne and the Queen of The North was an impossible fairy tale. If he tried to write an ending for them where they ended happily, with their twin thrones and a family of direwolves and children, they would all end in ruin. And he and his love would be the cause of it. Terras cleared his throat, and attempted to steady his voice.

"If Willas Tyrell is good, if he is kind, if he makes her happy, if he will bring her no harm, then she must choose him. He could actually go to The North with her, be the king she deserves. I could never give up Dorne. And she could never give up The North. Our love would be doomed from the start. Everyone knows it."

"Brother—"

"Your prince has spoken," he said. It wasn't often he invoked his position to force an issue, but at this moment, he couldn't bear another protestation. If he didn't give up Sansa now, he never would. And if the prophecy was correct, that would mean the end of everything. Including the woman he was growing to love. "Now, we must go. There is work to be done that doesn't concern the Queen in the North. We'd better get to it."

Without another word, Terras tore his eyes away from Sansa, his heart rioting against the silent farewell he wished her.

Sansa knew what they were all thinking. She could feel it in Ser Brienne's stare on the back of her neck. You are a Queen now. You do not have to wait at an ailing man's bedside. You do not have to concern yourself with the affairs of a stranger who may not even be who he says he is. They were all too smart to say it out loud, of course, but she knew that's what they were thinking even without anyone opening their mouths to speak it.

She knew they were all thinking it because she herself couldn't stop thinking it. You are a Queen, Sansa. The manipulations of your past shouldn't matter anymore. You are more than the little girl who might have been Willas Tyrell's wife.

But still, no matter how many times she reminded herself of that truth, she sat, stiff-backed and impassive, in the hard wooden bench across from his locked chamber door, waiting for the healers and maesters to come out and give her their full report on his well-being.

For so long, she would whisper Willas' name into her pillow, praying over the word as if she could manifest him into existence, a savior to rescue her from her tower of torment. Now, here in the flesh, he was the last remnant of the fairy tale she'd once imagined for herself. She had to know. She had to see for herself whether that little girl's dream was really as foolish as she'd always suspected.

Or...Had Margaery been telling the truth all those years ago? Had she really wanted to be Sansa's sister, to see her happy and in the care of someone who would truly love her? Was Willas the kind of man her father had wanted her to find: someone worthy, someone brave and gentle and strong? She didn't know. And she couldn't know until she met him.

It was a weakness. She knew that. Holding onto girlhood fantasies that her betrothed would be good and kind and loyal and loving was nothing short of madness, especially after all she'd endured. But it was one weakness she couldn't hold at bay.

She had to know.

So, she stayed. Long after everyone else had lost interest in the rousing of the lost Tyrell and had gone back to their wine or their revelry or their plotting, she—along with Jeyne and Brienne—kept watch over his long-still door. The healers had been in there for so long, too long, that she had to wonder if she'd ever find the truth she was seeking.

Clocks in a far-off steeple rang out the hour. Jeyne's eyes grew heavy and Sansa let her lady-in-waiting doze. And somewhere between the second and third chime, a somewhat familiar, rough voice reached her ears.

"Your Grace."

The clanking of well-made armor alerted her to the presence of a bowing gentleman, and when she looked up, it was Gendry, her uncle's bastard and Lord of Storm's End, who stood before her. Her eyebrow twitched in surprise, but she kept her voice low and measured to cover up the knee-jerk response.

"Lord Gendry," she said, inclining her head by way of measured greeting. "A pleasant surprise. I was told you wouldn't be attending this summit."

"I came once I heard that you would be here, Queen Sansa."

They'll all want to marry you know that you're Queen, she remembered Yara saying. Gods, she did not want to entertain another thought of marriage right now. Not with Terras and Willas fighting for dominance within the confines of her mind.

"Oh?"

"I was wondering if…if you'd heard from your sister."

Sansa surveyed the new arrival at Highgarden with detached interest. It was all there, written in his every tightened muscle and nervous flicker of his eyes. How had she not noticed it before, when they were all at Winterfell before the battle against the dead? The warm dawn of realization heated her chest. Gendry has feelings for Arya. Little Arya isn't so little anymore.

"Have you not heard from her?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gendry mumbled, quick and obviously guilty enough that Sansa almost laughed.

"I think you do know what I'm talking about."

A flicker of indecision gave way to worry as Gendry dropped all pretense of not caring. "I haven't heard a word from her since she left. Aren't you worried about her?"

Instinctively, as they did any time someone dared to ask Sansa about her feelings, the muscles in her spine tightened until she was sitting at her full, intimidating height.

"You forget yourself, Lord Gendry," Sansa sniffed. Then, without letting her composed mask slip, she continued: "But if you must know, I miss her too. Fiercely."

"Haven't you thought of going after her?"

"My sister is a rare creature. I would suggest that you not put her in a cage. Or even attempt to."

The lines in Gendry's face deepened in the dark shadows of the corridor. Something like sadness radiated against the walls of Sansa's chest. She and Arya were really shooting stars crossing in the night, weren't they? Here, Arya had everything Sansa had ever wanted: a kind, gentle, Lord who wanted to make her his lady. Yet she had thrown it away in search of a different kind of destiny.

Sansa couldn't have been more proud of her. It took courage to fight for your own life. But, she also could see—anyone could have seen—that Gendry would have gone to the ends of the world to join Arya in that life. Temptation danced on her tongue to tell him that, to tell him to run after her.

But the cynic in her won out. The truth of romance was never as simple as two people in love being together, never as simple as a leap of faith. She bit her tongue and watched as the light slipped away from Gendry's eyes.

"Thank you for your counsel. I will take it under advisement."

He disappeared, and for a good while, Sansa was again alone with her thoughts. Ser Brienne, though she'd watched the entire exchange, was good enough not to say anything about it, and Jeyne dozed at the opposite end of the bench, leaving her to convince herself that she'd done the right thing.

She had, hadn't she?

After all, love was a fairy tale, a story told to children to make them less afraid of the night. Arya and Gendry needed no such delusions. And neither did she.

Just as she was turning the corner of that thought, the door to Willas Tyrell's bedroom suddenly slammed open, revealing a team of healers and maesters, all flanking Tyrion, who came straight for Sansa. She rose to her feet, though her station didn't dictate it.

All of her nervous energy needed somewhere to go.

"He is who he says he is," Tyrion said, waving a handful of parchments in the air. Heavy bags weighed down his eyes; every word of his was labored, even slightly annoyed. Sansa tucked that little fact away for further investigation. It was entirely possible that Tyrion was put-out by the fact that he'd just given away House Tyrell's seat to a politically expedient sellsword, but it seemed deeper than that. After all Bronn should have been easy enough to get rid of. Sansa could think about a dozen ways to do it off of the top of her head. "I have confirmed it with the records kept in the crypts of Highgarden. A birthmark marks the heir of House Tyrell."

"And is he…" Sansa straightened her skirts. It was the best way she knew to communicate detached disinterest. "Is he alright?"

"He will live, if that's what you're asking."

"I will speak to him. I want to see him for myself."

Tyrion smiled up at her, but the expression was tight. Tense. The kind of smile her father used to give her when she spoke of the beauty of King's Landing. Tyrion's eyes glanced up and down the hallway, searching. "Of course. Will Prince Terras not be joining you, then?"

There it was again, that muscle twitch in her spine that awakened her I am a Queen and you are nothing posture. "Why would Prince Terras be joining me?"

"The affairs of princes and Queens is no concern of mine. I was only curious."

"No. I will go in alone."

"As you wish." Tyrion's tight smile didn't falter. His eyes brushed over the sleeping Jeyne before he offered himself to the knight standing at the bench's side. "Ser Brienne. A word?"

With the Lord of Highgarden's chambers currently occupied by Bronn of the Blackwater, the guards who had hustled the rightful heir to this place brought him to the first room that they could find, a simple bedchamber with little more than the basic amenities and refinement. This gave Sansa nothing to distract her from the sight of the broken man in the bed. The crackling fireplace against the far wall illuminated his bare chest and his cut-up, bruised face. Long shadows danced against the jagged, angry slices now populating his cheeks and forehead, his stomach and breast.

Even with the wounds, he was handsome, she decided. Not that it was enough to sway her, not when her walls were firmly in place against him.

Yes, she wanted to know if her girlish hopes were realized in this man. But…she wasn't about to let him know that. The less he knew about her, the more power she had against this sudden wildcard in Westeros' game of thrones.

She hesitated by the door, hoping the shadows would devour her long enough to get a good, solid measure of him. But when he coughed and turned in her direction, his weak, heavy eyes sparking at the sight of her, she knew she wasn't going to get the quiet size-up she'd been after.

"Sansa Stark. I thought you would be here when I woke up."

The memory of Terras bowing before her during their first meeting in King's Landing flashed in her mind. "Queen."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Queen Sansa Stark. Queen of Winterfell. Queen of the North. I answer to my titles and Your Grace, if I must be addressed."

A low, wavering whistle answered her. "My betrothed, a Queen. What does that make me, then?"

Nothing, she wanted to say. It makes you nothing. You left me to be devoured by The Lannisters and Ramsey and all the rest. You could have saved me and you let them have me instead. Here you are, putting on airs and making presumptions when you should be begging for my mercy. And besides, I'm not your betrothed. I belong to no one.

Instead, she strode over to the chair beside his bed and settled herself down in it.

"I suppose it would have made you Lord of Highgarden if you'd have been here."

"I didn't abandon you."

Sansa didn't like the sensation of being caught off-guard. But she couldn't help it in that moment.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can see it in your eyes. You think I abandoned you. But I didn't, Queen Sansa. My grandmother…I loved her very dearly but if you knew her, you had to know how callous, how calculating, she could be."

Margaery's grandmother was infamous across Westeros, and Sansa knew firsthand how her zero-sum machinations could alter someone's entire existence.

"Yes, I know."

"She knew a war was coming. And she didn't think a cripple like me would survive it. An easy target, she called me. She trusted me to Petyr Baelish, thinking he would save me, would protect me. But he threw me in a dungeon deep within The Vale, ready to use me against her at a moment's notice. I've only…" She watched as his Adam's apple bobbed and he grimaced from the pain of the motion as it disturbed one of the blood-stained bandages around his neck. "I only survived with thoughts of you."

"Me?"

"Margaery and my grandmother told me of you, of our betrothal. Of your beauty and your kindness and your sweet disposition."

Beauty, kindness, sweet disposition… Once again, thoughts of Terras clawed at the doors of her mind, begging to intrude on this moment. Terras spoke of her beauty and her kindness too, of course. But there was more. He spoke of her courage and her strength and everything the war had spent years carving into her.

More importantly, when she looked in his eyes, she knew he believed it. But Willas…he was as mysterious as an ancient riddle. Deep blue eyes, so like Margaery's, stared back at her, begging her to bend to his sweet words, to the story he wove all around her like a blanket draping over her shoulders near a campfire in the middle of a snowstorm.

"All I wanted was to steal you away from King's Landing and bring you to Highgarden to be my Lady. But when I got sent to Baelish's Pit, he would send ravens every so often, taunting me with tales of you, telling me what horrible acts were being committed against you. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of calling The Banners to my aid, mounting a great, white steed, donning my armor, and freeing you from Winterfell and Bolton. All I wanted to do was save you, Sansa. And I failed. For that, I will always be sorry."

Sorry. Such a tiny, insignificant word. But she couldn't remember the last time she'd heard it fro someone. With all of the wrongs and evils committed against her in the name of power, of greed, of lust, of revenge, she'd secretly longed for someone to say it, to utter those two little syllables. She'd dreamed of pressing a knife to Cersei's throat, hearing her whisper the word with pleading tears streaming down her cheeks, only to kill her the moment it passed her lips. She'd wanted Petyr to say it as he begged for his life.

But no one had yet given her that small gift. No one but Willas.

She found her hand on the bedclothes beside his own. Slowly, her fingers moved towards him, crossing the mountains of fabric until she gently touched the tips of her fingers to the top of his hand.

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't love. And there were no sparks at his touch, not the bottled lightning sensation that touching Terras always gave her.

But it was nice. Good enough. Her lips tugged at the ends, the cautious beginning of a detente.

"You wanted to save me, but it seems as though I saved you," she teased, lightly.

His eyes darkened. His hand tightened around her own. The air chilled as a warning passed his handsome lips. "Oh, Queen Sansa. You think you've been saved?"

Sansa left Willas' chambers when the darkness still wrapped around the castle and the newly found Tyrell was fast asleep. As she and her small entourage made their way back to their own wing of the Keep, Sansa lowered her voice so that only her friend could hear. No one else needed to know of the conflict raging within the Queen's own heart.

Willas was an unknown to her still. Yes, she knew his story now, and yes, the heart of the little girl who wanted rescuing still bit within her chest, wanting him to be the rescuing Knight she'd always dreamed him to be. But she didn't know him. Didn't know what he wanted. Didn't know what he was capable of.

Didn't know how she wanted to feel about him. Every time she entertained the idea of their betrothal, Terras returned to the forefront of her mind, like a song one heard through the window of a drinking house years ago but couldn't forget.

Terras was an impossibility. She knew that. But…in this moment, she trusted him more than she trusted her betrothed who had, by his own account, fought his way through the Vale to find her again.

"What do you make of it, Lady Jeyne?"

Wide, dark eyes scanned the hallway for any sign of eavesdroppers. When she heard none, Jeyne finally replied. "Do you want the truth?"

"From you? I only want the truth."

After all, Jeyne was one of the only people in the seven Kingdoms and The North she actually trusted to tell her the truth. Disturbingly, she had also begun counting Terras among that small group, a frightening development.

"I don't trust him. I want to trust him, and I will trust him, if you think it's best. But even fairy tale princes turn to monsters when they're kept in cages long enough." Jeyne drew in a long breath, and Sansa held her own as she waited for her dearest friend and counselor to give the rest of her answer. "Your Grace...I know you want to be loved."

"I am loved."

"By your people, yes. By me and by Ser Brienne, of course. But you want that kind of love that keeps the hearth warm in the center of your heart, the kind of love that will be there even if someone tries to tear you from your throne, the kind of love that would call a million armies to protect a single hair on your head. I know you want that kind of love, no matter how you may deny it."

Sansa tightened her jaw and kept her eyes focused forward. She wasn't going to lie now, not when she'd just asked Jeyne for the truth. "And?"

"And I don't know if you'll ever find it in Willas Tyrell."

"…He could be useful," Sansa said, more a reminder for herself than to anyone else. Prince Terras of Dorne couldn't give her anything but betrayal and a broken heart. Willas Tyrell could give her access to the riches of House Tyrell, which had been under lock and key since the death of the house at the hands of the Lannisters. He could give her a King. He could give her children.

Willas' motives were unclear. But at least she knew where he stood on the board in this great game. When it came to Terras, she felt like she was fighting against a ghost.

Or, perhaps more accurately, she felt like she wasn't fighting at all. And Sansa didn't know how to live if she wasn't fighting. Not anymore. The wars and battles were constantly being fought in the battleground of her mind, just as Baelish taught her. When she was with Terras, there was peace. She didn't know how to handle peace, no matter how much she craved it.

"Will Willas Tyrell be useful to your kingdom or to your heart?"

"Those are the same thing, Jeyne," Sansa snapped, harsher than she intended. But she didn't regret it. After all, a Queen couldn't afford a heart of her own.

"As you like, Your Grace."

As you like, here, clearly meant: I disagree with you, but respect you too much to insult you by saying anything else on the matter. Together, the two ladies turned into the courtyard that would lead them back towards their rooms, only to see Gendry and a small faction of soldiers readying their horses.

Sansa hadn't survived the war by believing in chance or fate. But she would be a fool to think that she survived any of it by her own devices alone. Maybe it was fate that brought Gendry into her path, maybe it was luck, but in any case, she wasn't about to let him go.

Fairy tales didn't happen in this world. But maybe Gendry and Arya weren't a fairytale. Maybe they were an epic poem, the kind of long song that warmed a cold night and reminded everyone that hope still flickered, even in the darkness.

And if Sansa couldn't have her own heart, if she would be a Queen instead of a woman, then at least she could ensure that Arya's kept beating.

"Lord Gendry?"

The man in question started, but turned to face her, his hands still on the reins of his horse. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Do you have anyone you would trust with your Keep? A regent or attendant who can be sworn to hold your lands fast? Someone who would be as good a Lord to your people as you are?"

Gendry's brow furrowed, but he nodded after a moment of consideration. "I believe I do."

"Then take your ships. Take the fastest ones you can find. And find my sister. Sail to the edge of the world and find her."

"…She wouldn't want to come back. She wouldn't want to be a Lady."

Sansa hadn't been asking. She'd given a command, and she would see it through. With a small, secretive smile, she retrieved the dagger that Arya had given to her before the battle against the dead. The blade glinted like a star in the deep, dark night. She cut the insignia from the banner draped over the flanks of Gendry's horse before dropping the useless fabric into the mud. "Good. Because you aren't a Lord. Stop pretending to be one."

As far as Lady Jeyne Pool was concerned, Highgarden didn't have much to recommend it. Through her life, she'd seen plenty of keeps and plenty of castles, heard all of the stories about the splendor of Westeros' finest.

But so far, the only thing Jeyne had come to truly love about this place was the sunshine. Here, the world was basked in it. The castle and the keep and the gardens within were soaked in sunlight, golden rays that lasted almost until the evening.

She couldn't get enough. Years of dungeons and abuse would do that to you. When all you know is darkness, all you crave is sunlight.

So, she spent the morning after Willas Tyrell's return as she spent most of her mornings when Sansa was otherwise occupied: sprawled a patch of sun in Highgarden's finest garden. But, unlike most mornings, when she could not simply enjoy the light upon her skin. Today, she was distracted by thoughts of Highgarden's returned prince.

Jeyne didn't like it. Not his sudden arrival. Not the way he glommed onto Sansa. Not the way he seemed to presume that their betrothal would still be binding. Not the way he seemed so keen on possessing her, on saving her, on rescuing her.

Sansa didn't need to be rescued. Sansa needed a partner, an equal. A King for a Queen instead of a knight for the damselled princess.

Someone, Jeyne thought, rather like Terras of Dorne.

The crunch of a branch beneath booted feet shocked her to standing. But when she opened her eyes, it wasn't to a stranger or a guard coming to give her abuse, as had been the case when she was in captivity. It was to the sight of Alcander, Prince Terras' brother, who held his bare hands up in surrender.

There, in the sunlight, she couldn't deny how handsome he was. Nor how her pulse sped up at the sight of him, especially when he smiled down at her as though she were the most precious creature to ever walk the ground of Westeros.

"My apologies, Lady Jeyne."

"No, my apologies. I spook easily," she said, clasping a hand to her chest. Controlling her breathing proved more difficult than she'd expected, but Alcander smiled broadly, a toothy, understanding grin brightening his face.

"If a strange man had snuck up upon me while I was napping, I would have spooked, too. No shame in it. I'm just glad to find someone who enjoys the sunshine as much as I do. Do you mind if I join you?"

She shook her head and returned to her patch of grass, watching from the corner of her eye as he took a place beside her. For awhile, they sat in silence. Well, relative silence. The garden was peaceful and serene, but the inside of her mind was a battlefield of internal conversations and doubts.

Doubts she could no longer keep to herself. After a moment of mental torment, she finally blurted out the one question she returned to over and over again: "What does your Prince want with Sansa?"

"What does your Sansa want with my Prince?"

"I asked you first. And I happen to have diplomatic seniority in this regard, my Sansa being a Queen and all."

Something flickered in Alcander's dark eyes. Jeyne tensed, waiting for a blow like she would have received for talking back while she was in bondage. But no sooner had the flicker passed than Alcander let out a laugh, warm and enveloping. Jeyne's muscles relaxed. "I've never met someone so loyal to their Queen. It's refreshing."

"And your Prince?"

"Well, my Prince is my brother, so the loyalty runs as deep as the urge to smack him around with a sword every once in awhile."

Jeyne wasn't very comfortable with men anymore. She'd had years to learn that wariness. Staying away from them was often the only way to protect herself from them. But being here, with Alcander…It was the first time that the noise of her past began to quiet.

Warmth flooded her cheeks, a warmth she couldn't blame on the sunshine. Focus on Sansa, she reminded herself. Focus on finding the truth.

"What does your prince want with her?" she asked again.

Alcander coughed, and surveyed her from beneath his long, dark eyelashes, as though he were suddenly very sheepish about something. "Lady Jeyne, I must confess that as much as I love the sunshine, I came to this garden with an ulterior motive."

"I don't scheme, Ser Alcander."

If he thought she was going to betray Sansa for a few kind smiles, he had another thing coming. She would not turn against her only friend.

Alcander's light, lilting tone—so casual, so warm—didn't leave him, even under the weight of her serious stare. "That's rather unfortunate because you see, there's a certain prince who feels very deeply for a certain Queen. If it were possible that that certain Queen returned that certain prince's feelings… Well, helping them realize those feelings would require a certain level of scheming from their closest friends and advisors, wouldn't it?"

One didn't need to be a political genius to understand what he was proposing. It wasn't a political endeavor. He wanted to play match-maker. And he wanted her help.

It would be a betrayal of her Queen to engage with such activities. It would certainly require lying and scheming, two things Jeyne swore she would never engage in where Sansa was concerned. It would certainly ruin things between Sansa and Willas Tyrell.

So, of course, she knew she had to do it.

"…What did you have in mind?"

Sorry for the delay in this chapter! I'm getting married this Saturday, so it's been a little hectic with planning, but I wanted to get this chapter out to you all! Thank you so much for loving this story. I can't wait to hear your thoughts!