It was a miracle, really, that the sun was kind to us.
No blistering heat, no sudden storm breaking through the horizon. Just a warm breeze rustling the jasmine garlands and the low hum of anticipation weaving through the gardens of Dominion Hall.
The weddings were today.
Seven of them.
And by some cosmic sleight of hand—or the ghost of Monte pulling strings from somewhere beyond—it was all going exactly to plan.
I moved through the great lawn like a conductor on the edge of a symphony, headset clipped discreetly in place, clipboard tucked against my hip. From a distance, no one would’ve known I was also one of the brides. My dress, still hidden away, waited in a suite above the bridal hall. Bea had already rehearsed the handoff—when I would step away from the planner’s role and become a bride myself.
But until then?
Until that exact second?
I was still the woman who made the impossible happen.
“Confirm aisle petals are down for Isabel’s ceremony,” I whispered into the mic, eyes scanning the chairs, the altar, the second-string violinists tucked near the fountain. “Claire’s garden arbor still needs lighting adjusted. And somebody check that the signature cocktail signage hasn’t blown away again.”
Behind me, Bea’s voice chimed in, cool and crisp: “On it.”
She was flawless. Monte would’ve been proud.
My throat tightened at the thought of him—gone but threaded through every inch of this day. I could still see his meticulous notes in the final drafts of the security placements. Still hear his voice reminding me to keep my chin up, to trust the backup team he’d trained. The Dominion guys were scattered throughout the estate—watchful, discreet, absolute professionals.
I exhaled.
One hour to go.
Guests filtered in like whispers—politicians, old-money families, operatives in disguise. A billionaire hedge fund mogul brought his mistress and his wife, seating them two rows apart. An Eastern European princess asked for a rosé spritz in her to-go cup. The mother of the bride for wedding #5 insisted we double-check the lace count on the runner even though it had been pre-approved three times.
It was chaos.
But it was my chaos.
Each bride was a vision.
Sloane, in silk and shadow, a dagger pinned discreetly to her garter. Claire, wild and radiant, her bouquet a tangle of thistle and blood-red dahlias. Vivienne, timeless in long sleeves and pearls, looking like she'd stepped out of a Vogue spread. Hallie Mae, soft and steel beneath layers of tulle. Anna, wrapped inchiffon and irreverence. And Isabel, who wore leather heels with her satin gown like she’d dare anyone to stop her.
And then there was me.
The woman who'd built this empire from trailer park dreams and endless nights hunched over invoices. The woman who’d run from love and family and her own name until it caught up with her.
Now I was marrying Silas Dane.
MySilas.
I’d stepped into his world with caution and come out with blood on my hands, love in my chest, and a vow I was ready to live.
“Portia,” Bea said gently over the headset. “It’s time.”
I turned, slow and breathless, as the last of the guests were seated. The transitions were seamless. Bea would run the show now. She’d earned it, and I trusted her more than ever. The first of the ceremonies would begin in seven minutes.
I moved toward the suite where my gown waited, where my mother’s voice lived in the voicemail I’d listened to ten times this morning, where my sisters had texted a photo of themselves in the Danes’ private jet, laughing, coming to witness something they never thought they’d see.
Me. In white.
The dress was custom—of course, it was. Ivory silk with a structured bodice, clean lines, and a cathedral-length veil I’d sworn I didn’t want but now couldn’t bear to take off. It shimmered when I moved. It whispered when I breathed.
