Just like love.
Outside, the first groom made his entrance—Atlas, stoic and breathtaking in his tux, stepping from the shadows to stand beside his bride. A chorus of camera shutters followed him. The audience stilled.
And then—chaos in the most controlled, cinematic, Dane family way.
The next to arrive was Ryker.
But he didn’t stroll down the aisle like a mortal man.
No.
He came from the water.
A black Zodiac boat appeared, cutting across the sparkling surface of the harbor like a blade. The breeze snapped through his open jacket, the red silk lining flashing like a flag of war. He stepped out waist-deep, boots sinking, then walked up the carved stone steps of Dominion Hall like Poseidon himself had given him away. His bride, Isabel, waited at the top, laughing, one hand pressed to her mouth like she couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. He kissed her wet and unapologetically, then took his place.
The crowd had barely stopped gasping when a low whine filled the air.
A drone buzzed high above the garden … then higher … until it wasn’t a drone at all. Not anymore.
A figure parachuted down from the blue, black parachute flaring wide like wings above him—Marcus, midair, descending with all the casual confidence of a man used to diving into war zones. He landed in a spray of petals—deliberate, because, of course, we’d coordinated the drop—and strode forward with his tie loose and grin locked in. Claire met him halfway, pulled him down by the collar, and kissed him like the sky had delivered him just for her.
Each brother followed suit in some impossible way.
Noah arrived on a vintage Harley. Charlie and Elias emerged from smoke canisters that hissed beneath the floral arch like battlefield theatrics. Atlas, despite his quiet entrance, had walked barefoot across a shallow stretch of fire-lined steppingstones to get to his bride, smoke curling around his ankles like a legend come to life.
And when we thought it couldn’t get more absurd, fireworks erupted across the harbor.
Even though it was still broad daylight.
Red, white, and gold shot into the sky above the USS Yorktown, bright enough to make guests shield their eyes, loud enough to rattle the champagne flutes. A bald eagle might as well have flown across the moon for how over-the-top it all felt.
It was insane.
It was excessive.
It was perfect.
And finally—it was our turn.
I waited justbeyond the trellis as the seventh set of music swelled.
Then he arrived.
But not from the manor. Not from the gardens.
No—Silas arrived by air.
A sleek, silent black helicopter crested the tree line behind Dominion Hall, blades cutting the sky like a warning. It descended slow and deliberate, a whisper of thunder over the crowd. The rotors whipped the rose petals into a cyclone as it touched down on the far edge of the lawn, the audience gasping, shielding their faces from the wind.
Silas.
In a tailored black suit that made him look every bit the man who had survived a war and still chose love. The man who had once haunted my nightmares now walked toward the altar like he was carrying every one of my dreams in his hands. The sunlight hit his suit just right—tailored black with a crisp white shirt, no tie, no nonsense. Just him. Strong. Sharp. Devastating.
And completely, unmistakably mine.
The crowd rose to their feet.
And in the sea of faces, I saw them.
