Chapter 10 The Third Wedding and 'Death Announcement'

# Chapter 10: The Third Wedding and 'Death Announcement'

The hospital room was dim and quiet when I entered, Damon secured in a carrier against my chest. Two FBI agents stood outside the door, a reminder that danger still lurked despite the sterile safety of Mass General's private wing.

Declan was asleep, or appeared to be—his face paler than I'd ever seen it, monitors beeping steadily beside him. One arm was heavily bandaged, while his leg was elevated in a complex brace. The sheet over his torso couldn't hide additional bandaging around his midsection.

I approached cautiously, struck by how vulnerable he looked. This was a man who had outwitted death, deceived the world, and survived against impossible odds—yet here he lay, broken and human.

His eyes opened as I drew near, immediately finding mine with unexpected clarity. "You came," he whispered, voice rough from intubation during surgery.

"We came," I corrected, gently adjusting the carrier so he could see Damon's sleeping face.

Something in his expression cracked open—raw emotion breaking through the careful control he'd maintained through everything. "She's grown," he said softly, reaching out with his uninjured arm to touch her tiny hand.

"Babies do that," I replied, attempting lightness despite the heaviness in my chest. "Even when their fathers are busy getting shot multiple times."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Not my finest hour."

"I don't know," I said, settling into the chair beside his bed. "Taking three bullets while ensuring your family escapes safely? Some might call that heroic."

"Not heroic," he countered. "Necessary."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything between us—five years of separation, weeks of revelations, days of danger—settling around us like a physical presence.

"I saw your phone," I finally said. "The photos. The notes."

His eyes closed briefly, a flicker of something like shame crossing his face. "I wasn't sure you'd look."

"I wasn't sure I wanted to," I admitted. "Part of me expected to find something disturbing—evidence of obsession, of... I don't know. Something darker."

"And did you?"

I considered the question carefully. "Yes and no. I found a man struggling with impossible choices. A man who couldn't let go, but who tried to respect boundaries even while watching from afar." I paused. "It was intimate in a way that felt both intrusive and... strangely honest."

He nodded slowly. "I never intended for you to see those notes. They were my way of talking to you when I couldn't actually speak to you. My way of processing."

"You could have kept a journal," I pointed out.

"I did that too," he admitted with a faint smile. "But the photos... they anchored me. Reminded me why I was doing what I was doing, even when it felt impossible to continue."

I glanced down at Damon, who had begun to stir. "And what happens now? Lawrence is still out there. We're still in danger."

"Katherine has a plan," Declan said. "One that might draw Lawrence out while keeping you and Damon protected."

"Tell me."

"A public statement. From you." He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement disturbed his wounds. "Announcing your intention to testify against Lawrence, revealing everything about his organization's attempts on your life."

I frowned. "Wouldn't that just make us bigger targets?"

"That's the point. It would force Lawrence to act—but on our terms, with every possible security measure in place." He reached for my hand. "You would be bait, but in the safest possible way."

"And you? What role do you play in this plan?"

"I'll be by your side," he stated as if it were obvious. "Where I belong."

"With three bullet wounds and a shattered femur?" I raised an eyebrow. "You can barely sit up, Declan."

"I'll manage." His jaw set in the stubborn expression I knew all too well. "I'm not letting you face this alone."

"Like I faced the past five years alone?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, sharper than I'd intended.

Declan's face fell. "I deserved that."

An uncomfortable silence settled between us, broken only by Damon's soft noises as she fully woke. I adjusted her in the carrier, but her fussing indicated she was hungry.

"May I hold her?" Declan asked hesitantly. "Just for a moment, before you feed her?"

I carefully lifted Damon from the carrier and placed her in his good arm. The tenderness with which he cradled her, the wonder in his eyes as he studied her face—it was the look of a man seeing a miracle, a treasure he never expected to hold.

"Hello, little one," he murmured. "Your dad's made quite a mess of things, but I'm working on fixing that."

Something about the simple honesty of that statement, spoken not to me but to our daughter, touched me deeply. This was the Declan I remembered—direct, sincere, without artifice when it mattered most.

As he reluctantly handed her back so I could feed her, he said, "I've been thinking about what happens after—assuming we survive Lawrence's final play."

"What do you mean?"

"Legally, I'm still dead. Coming back to life... it's complicated. There will be investigations, questions about insurance fraud, possible criminal charges for faking my death." He grimaced. "Not to mention the professional consequences—my medical license, hospital privileges."

"You've thought about this," I observed.

"I've had five years to consider the ramifications of returning," he admitted. "I always knew it would be messy. I just didn't know if it would be worth it."

"And now?"

His eyes met mine, then moved to Damon. "Now I know it's worth any price."

Three days later, Declan was released from the hospital against medical advice. Katherine arranged for us to be moved to a secure location—a private estate outside Boston with comprehensive security measures. Declan was still heavily dependent on pain medication, moving awkwardly with crutches, but his stubborn determination to be part of Katherine's plan overrode medical caution.

The plan itself was straightforward: a press conference where I would publicly announce my intention to testify against Lawrence Donovan, flanked by FBI protection and Declan at my side—his first official public appearance since his "resurrection." The hope was that Lawrence, increasingly desperate as his organization crumbled, would make a move that would expose him to capture.

"It's risky," I acknowledged as we reviewed the details the night before the scheduled press conference. "But I'm tired of hiding, of running. I want this to end—for Damon's sake."

Declan nodded, his hand finding mine across the table. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Evelyn, I want you to know something. These past weeks with you and Damon—despite everything, they've been the happiest of my life."

"Because you've finally been able to be yourself," I suggested. "No more hiding, no more dual identities."

"Because I've been with you," he corrected simply. "My identity has never mattered as much as that."

That evening, as we settled Damon for the night, Declan handed me a document folder. "I've been working on this since the hospital," he explained. "With Katherine's help."

Inside was a new will and testament, meticulously detailed.

"A bit morbid, considering recent events," I observed, leafing through it.

"Practical," he countered. "If something happens to me tomorrow—or ever—I want everything in order this time. No ambiguity, no confusion." He pointed to a specific clause. "This is the important part."

I read it aloud: "'In the event of my confirmed death, I request that no formal funeral service be held. Instead, I ask that a recording be played at a small gathering of family and friends—a recording I have prepared of my wife, Dr. Evelyn Carter, expressing her honest thoughts about me, unfiltered and uncensored.'"

I looked up, confused. "What recording?"

A hint of mischief sparked in his eyes—a glimpse of the old Declan, the one who had made me laugh even during thirty-hour shifts and impossible cases. "The one you'll make if you ever need it. I figured after everything, you've earned the right to have the last word."

Despite myself, I laughed. "So if you die—again—I get to tell everyone what I really think of you?"

"Seems fair." He shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at his stitches. "Though I'm planning to stick around long enough to hear it in person."

The levity of the moment faded as I continued reading the will. Beyond the humorous clause about the recording, Declan had meticulously provided for Damon's future, established medical scholarships in both our names, and ensured that his considerable assets—accumulated during his years "away"—would be protected from any legal complications arising from his return from the dead.

"This is thorough," I commented. "You've thought of everything."

"I've had practice," he said quietly. "Planning for contingencies."

I set the document aside. "Let's hope we don't need this particular contingency."

The press conference was scheduled for noon the following day on the steps of the Federal Building. As we prepared that morning, I found myself watching Declan struggle to dress with his injuries, refusing help with stubborn determination.

"Why is this so important to you?" I finally asked. "Being there physically, when you're barely healed? Katherine says I'll have a full security detail."

He paused, dress shirt half-buttoned, his face tightening against obvious pain. "Because I've spent five years protecting you from a distance. I need to stand beside you this time—visibly, publicly." He met my eyes. "I need Lawrence to see that he didn't break me, that I'm still standing between him and my family."

I helped him with the remaining buttons, my fingers brushing against the edge of his bandages. "You have nothing to prove, Declan. Not to me, not to Lawrence, not to anyone."

"I have everything to prove," he disagreed gently. "To myself, if no one else."

As we prepared to leave for the Federal Building, Katherine pulled me aside. "We've received intelligence that Lawrence is in the city," she said quietly. "Our plan may be working."

"Is everything in place?" I asked, anxiety tightening my chest.

"Every precaution," she assured me. "Snipers on adjacent rooftops, plainclothes agents in the crowd, bulletproof panels on the podium. You'll be as safe as we can make you."

I glanced at Declan, who was saying goodbye to Damon. We'd decided she would remain at the secure estate with trusted agents—the press conference was no place for an infant, especially one potentially in danger.

"And after?" I asked. "Assuming Lawrence takes the bait?"

"We have a team ready to move the moment he's spotted," Katherine explained. "Best case scenario, we apprehend him without incident. Worst case..." She didn't finish.

"We've lived through worst cases before," I said with more confidence than I felt.

The Federal Building plaza was crowded with press when we arrived—cameras, microphones, reporters jostling for position. Katherine led us through a side entrance, bypassing the chaos until it was time for our appearance.

In a quiet moment before we were to step outside, Declan took my hand. "Whatever happens out there," he said softly, "know that I love you. I have always loved you, even when I couldn't be with you."

"I know," I replied, and realized I truly did. Whatever mistakes he'd made, whatever pain his choices had caused, his love had never been in question.

As we stepped into the sunlight, cameras flashed and reporters shouted questions. The world now knew that Declan Carter had returned from the dead, and they were hungry for details. Katherine approached the microphone first, introducing me as Dr. Evelyn Carter, prepared to make a statement about recent events.

I stepped forward, Declan at my side despite his injuries, and began the speech we had carefully crafted with Katherine. I spoke of the attacks, of Lawrence Donovan's vendetta, of my intention to testify against his criminal enterprise. As planned, I never mentioned Declan's five-year absence or the circumstances of his "death"—those details would only muddy the waters of the case against Lawrence.

As I spoke, I was acutely aware of Declan beside me, of his steady presence despite the pain I knew he was in. This was a man who had taken bullets for me, who had lived in shadows to protect me, who had documented my life in his absence not out of obsession but out of a desperate need to remain connected to what he loved most.

When I finished my statement, reporters began shouting questions. Katherine stepped in, announcing that we would not be taking questions at this time. As we turned to leave, a commotion erupted at the back of the crowd.

"Gun!" someone shouted, and chaos ensued.

Security personnel swarmed around us as shots rang out. Declan, despite his injuries, pushed me toward the building entrance. I glimpsed a figure being tackled by plainclothes agents before we were hustled inside to safety.

"Lawrence?" I gasped as the doors closed behind us.

Katherine shook her head. "One of his men. But this means Lawrence is close—he sent someone testing our security."

We were quickly moved to a secure room within the building while agents secured the area. Declan collapsed into a chair, his face pale with exertion and pain.

"That was too close," he muttered, adjusting his injured leg with a grimace.

"But it worked," Katherine said, checking her phone as messages poured in. "We've identified the shooter as one of Lawrence's longtime associates. He's talking, hoping for a deal." She looked up, a rare smile crossing her face. "He's given us Lawrence's location."

Events moved quickly after that. While we remained secured in the Federal Building, FBI tactical teams moved on a warehouse at the edge of the city. Within hours, Katherine returned with news: Lawrence Donovan was in custody, captured while attempting to flee on a private boat.

"It's over?" I asked, hardly daring to believe it.

"It's over," she confirmed. "He'll never see freedom again."

The relief that washed over me was so profound I felt lightheaded. Five years of Declan's careful planning, weeks of our running and hiding—all culminating in this moment of safety, of conclusion.

Declan reached for my hand. "We can go home," he said softly. "We can start again."

Two months later, on a crisp autumn day, we stood in the small chapel where we had married eight years earlier. Declan's leg was healing well, though he still walked with a slight limp that doctors warned might be permanent. The legal complications of his return from the dead were ongoing, but Katherine's influence had helped smooth many of the potential criminal charges.

We had decided, after much discussion, to renew our vows—not as the people we had been, but as the people we had become through separation, deception, and ultimately, forgiveness.

"Are you nervous?" Nancy asked as she helped me with the simple ivory dress I'd chosen.

"Not nervous," I replied, adjusting Damon's tiny matching dress. At four months old, she was alert and curious, taking in the chapel decorations with wide blue eyes—Declan's eyes. "Just... ready. Ready to move forward without looking back."

The ceremony was small—just family and close friends. My mother, who had eventually forgiven Declan after what I'm told was a spectacular dressing-down that left him more terrified than any encounter with Lawrence Donovan. A handful of hospital colleagues who had been part of Declan's protection network. Katherine, standing somewhat awkwardly in a dress instead of her usual practical suits.

When it came time for our vows, Declan surprised me by going off-script.

"Evelyn," he began, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes, "eight years ago, I promised to love and cherish you until death parted us. I kept that promise—perhaps too literally." A gentle ripple of laughter moved through our small gathering. "Today, I make a new promise: to love you with complete honesty, to cherish you without secrets, and to remain by your side not until death parts us, but until you personally confirm I'm gone."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded paper. "This is my new will. The one stipulating that if I die—again—my funeral will feature you telling everyone exactly what you think of me."

I laughed through tears as he handed it to me. "And what should I do with this now?"

"Whatever you want," he replied. "Because I plan to live a very long time, hearing your unfiltered opinions directly."

When it was my turn, I handed Damon to Nancy and faced Declan squarely. "Eight years ago, I married a brilliant, impulsive surgeon who I thought I knew completely. Five years ago, I buried that man—or thought I did. Today, I'm marrying someone both familiar and new—a man who has shown me that love can survive even the most impossible circumstances."

I took his hands in mine. "I can't promise I've forgiven everything. I can't promise there won't be days when the past catches up to us. But I can promise this: I choose you, Declan Carter. Not the memory I preserved, not the ghost who watched over me, but the real, flawed, extraordinary man standing before me."

As we exchanged rings—new ones, symbols of our fresh start—Damon let out a sudden, clear sound from Nancy's arms.

"Did she just...?" Declan turned, eyes wide.

"Her first word," I confirmed, laughing through tears as she repeated it:

"Da-da!"

"Well," Declan said, his own eyes suspiciously bright, "at least someone in this family has good timing."

"Actually," Nancy interjected with a grin, "she's been practicing that for days. I think she was just waiting for the most dramatic moment."

"Daddy's girl," I said, shaking my head. "Too much drama already."

As we celebrated afterward in the small reception, surrounded by the few people who knew our entire story, I found myself watching Declan with Damon. He held her with such natural ease now, all his initial awkwardness replaced by confident tenderness. She gripped his finger in her tiny hand, and I overheard his whispered words:

"You and your mother saved me, little one. In more ways than you'll ever know."

Later that night, in the quiet of our new home—a house neither of us had lived in before, free from old memories—I asked the question that had lingered since his return.

"Do you regret it? Any of it?"

He considered carefully before answering. "I regret the pain I caused you. I regret not finding another way." He touched my face gently. "But I can't regret the outcome—you and Damon, safe. Us, here together."

As I drifted toward sleep in his arms, I realized something profound: the man I had married, lost, grieved, rediscovered, and finally chosen again had never really been a ghost. He had been flesh and blood all along, making impossible choices, living with their consequences.

And now, for better or worse, we would face whatever came next together—no more secrets, no more separate lives. Just us, our daughter, and whatever future we built from the ashes of our past.