Morning

By the time the horses reached the top of the bluff, the morning light had turned gold. A few early risers with scarves knotted loosely at their necks, and linen billowing behind them, took in the Pacific in silence. The soft clop of hooves and breaths are the only sounds to be heard. It wasn’t about the ride. It was about remembering where you are.

Back on the estate, the rhythm stayed slow. Brunch on the West Lawn was available until 2pm. For those not riding, there was the comfort of pacing: a robe, a facial, a private nap in the sun. Each guest received a turn-down card that evening. Printed in letterpress, it bore a single quote; some from Zuri’s mother, others from Julian’s grandfather. Small reminders that love, and legacy, are learned.

THE ARCHIVAL GALLERY

The Lower Library had transformed into something quietly profound. Walls lined with carefully framed photographs and archival objects—small pieces of history, intentionally placed and softly lit. Each frame, each letter, each object carried a quiet weight, a whisper of lineage and legacy.

Zuri and Julian moved slowly through the exhibit, side by side, their footsteps muffled against the carpeted floor. Julian wore a relaxed linen shirt tucked loosely into tailored pants, sleeves casually pushed above his elbows. Zuri, poised beside him, was understated and luminous, dressed in soft ivory silk that seemed to glide through the gallery air. Behind them moved the Vanity Fair team, small and discreet, careful to honor the space’s hushed reverence. The Vow camera crew remained quietly positioned, lenses capturing movement and expression in slow, respectful passes.

Julian paused in front of a photograph of his grandfather—on set, 1961. He studied it silently, eyes tracing the handwritten notes in the margins.

“Look at this,” he murmured, gently reaching out without touching the glass. “He used to annotate scripts in that same handwriting. It drove Dad crazy.”

Zuri smiled softly, following Julian’s gaze. “You do the exact same thing.”

“I know.” Julian laughed gently. “It’s in my blood, I guess.”

Zuri’s attention drifted toward another corner of the exhibit, a framed letter—her mother’s familiar script, graceful and sure. She moved closer, reading quietly to herself, lips parted slightly as emotion rose and receded.

The Vanity Fair photographer gently raised her camera. No clicks. Just quiet captures. Respectful, attentive. Beside her, the Vow team moved like shadows—no bright lights, no microphones intruding—just quiet observation of the moment shared between two people navigating the space between their past and future.

Julian stepped behind Zuri, placing a soft hand at the small of her back. His voice came quietly, just above a whisper. “What does it say?”

She didn’t answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice held quiet strength. “It’s a letter she wrote in her journal after the first time she came out to LA to meet you.”

He nodded gently, moving his hand just slightly, grounding her. “Wow. That was a beautiful weekend too”

“Very,” Zuri replied quietly, eyes still on her mother’s handwriting. After a beat, she turned toward him, her gaze softening. “I see her in everything now.”

Julian looked steadily at her, eyes warm and quiet. “And I see both of them in you.”

The gallery was silent around them. The camera team paused, giving the couple a breath, a beat of privacy even in the presence of others. The Vanity Fair writer made a small note, eyes full of quiet admiration.

Julian squeezed Zuri’s hand softly, leaning closer. “Come on. Let’s take our time.”

Together, they moved slowly through the rest of the gallery, quiet conversation weaving between artifacts, photographs, and stories held in glass and memory. The past mingled gently with the present, observed and honored by those who watched, those who captured by those who lived it.

that evening

By nightfall, the Refectory had transformed. The tables were dressed in deep florals, fig leaves, and heavy brass candlesticks. The soundtrack was subtle: reworked instrumentals of Lauryn Hill, Aaliyah, Kendrick. It felt ceremonial, but never stiff. Guests arrived in black and ivory, silhouettes strong, eyes glowing. Zuri entered just before dinner in a custom sculptural gown by Studio Atelier—sharp in cut, soft in tone. Julian, tailored and calm, joined her at the head of the table.

The meal unfolded in near silence at first, as though everyone instinctively knew the weight of what was being honored. Halfway through, the lights dimmed. A film began to play—not a highlight reel, but a story. Bits of interviews. Archival footage. The grain of old love made present again. There was no narration. Only presence.

After the film, Recea stepped forward, barefoot in silk, and sang something original—unreleased, written just for them. The final verse faded into strings. Then Cece stood, without announcement, and read a short passage: part memory, part prayer. There were tears, but no sobs. The room was too full of breath.

And still, it wasn’t over.