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This family had taken a broken, abandoned past and built an empire of love and loyalty right over the ruins. A profound wave of gratitude washed over me. Belonging to this ecosystem was a privilege I would never take for granted.
I found Ben near the stage. He had abandoned his post behind the bar and stood near the front row, holding Eli’s battered acoustic guitar by the neck. He was drinking a pint glass of beer and talking to a tall, dark-haired man. The stranger clinked a bottle of IPA against Ben’s glass.
Stepping up beside them, my hand slipped naturally into Ben’s free one. His fingers laced through mine with practiced, easy familiarity.
"Are you boys behaving?" I asked.
“A lot better than we used to.” Ben smiled, his posture completely relaxed. "Sutton, this is Gabe Markham. Gabe, Sutton Vale."
Markham.
The name triggered a direct memory of the dark cottage and Ben’s quiet confession. I darted my eyes between the two of them, wide-eyed. The old, bitter rivalry between the Coleridges and the Markhams was entirely dead and buried. Gabe was here supporting the marine center, entirely at ease in his former enemy’s bar.
As I shook my head, a wide smile broke across my face. "Look at the two of you peacefully drinking. I never would have guessed you were the same guys who spent a night in a Marathon jail cell together after a bloody brawl."
Gabe laughed, then winced as he raised his bottle in a mock salute. "We matured. Eventually. It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Sutton." He gave Ben a clap on the shoulder and wandered back toward Hunter and Brenna’s booth.
Ben squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing my knuckles, and held out the acoustic guitar. “Time to watch you shine."
"Front row, huh?" I teased, slipping the worn strap over my shoulder. The familiar weight of the instrument settled against my hip.
He leaned in to brush a kiss over my cheek. "Wouldn’t be anywhere else."
Up on the stage, Tessa tapped the microphone, cutting through the pub chatter. She gestured directly toward me in the front row. "Our next performer needs no introduction, and we are incredibly lucky she decided to put down roots right here in Dove Key. Please give a balmy island welcome to Sutton Vale!"
After I let go of Ben’s hand, I climbed the three wooden stairs to the small stage, which creaked under my boots. The pub chatter shifted into a roaring wave of applause as the microphone stand came within reach. I wasn’t wearing haute couture or hiding behind a synthetic wig. Clad in a pair of perfectly worn denim jeans and a vintage Sunset Siesta Resort T-shirt, no armor was necessary. I was fully, radiantly out in the open.
"Hi everyone." My voice rang warm and clear through the speakers.
A huge cheer erupted from the crowd.
"Thank you." I adjusted the microphone, a grounded, brilliant smile stretching across my mouth. "I know things were a little... exciting around here a month ago when I moved here. We had helicopters. We had news vans. Again. It was a lot for a quiet island."
A few locals laughed and raised their glasses in solidarity.
"But the press has officially moved on to the next story. There always is one,” I continued, the tone light and teasing. "So the siege is officially over, and we have reached a new normal. I just wanted to say thank you."
Strumming a single, bright chord on the acoustic guitar, the rich sound filled the room.
"Thank you for ignoring the occasional lingering flashbulb," I told the crowd, meeting the eyes of the fishermen, the servers, and the neighbors. "Thank you for letting me buy groceries without making it weird. And mostly, thank you for welcoming me simply as a person."
As I turned my attention to the back of the room, the cluster of Coleridge tables came into focus. "And a special thank you to the most aggressively loyal family on the eastern seaboard. Thank you for folding me into your beautiful chaos."
Finally, my gaze dropped to the front row where Ben stood dead center. He wasn’t hiding in the shadows or lingering near an exit. He stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest, his green eyes locked onto mine with absolute, unapologetic adoration.
"Tonight, I want to debut a new song for you. One I wrote the other day on an old upright piano that had been lovingly restored and just needed someone to sing with it."
My fingers flew across the fretboard. Not a slow, aching ballad or a distress signal. The melody was upbeat, joyful, and driving. The song sounded like open windows on the Overseas Highway. It sounded like sunshine and new beginnings.
I sang with raw, unfiltered power, and my lyrics spoke of finding solid ground, of building something real out of the wreckage, and of trading the spotlight for the sun. The crowd clapped along to the beat, caught up in the infectious energy of the room.
Ben applauded too, apparently incapable of wiping the brilliant grin off his face. The sight made my heart soar into the ether.
When I hit the final, ringing chord, the pub absolutely lost its mind. The applause was deafening. Ben cheered louder than anyone else, whistling sharply through his teeth.
A quick bow drew another round of cheers before I slipped the guitar strap over my head and secured the instrument on its stand. A wave of people immediately clustered near the bottom of the wooden stairs, but the frantic, grabbing energy of a stadium meet-and-greet was entirely absent. Instead, warm handshakes and heartfelt praise greeted my descent. I signed a few cardboard coasters, thanked a group of dive instructors for their generous bids in the silent auction, and posed for a quick photo with Liv Markham, who owned the bakery on Main Street.
Nearly ten minutes passed before the crowd thinned enough to navigate a path. Ben stood waiting patiently near the edge of the stage, holding a fresh glass of ice water.
