Two years later
I've never been so nervous in my life. My heart is pounding so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it, even over the string quartet playing Pachelbel's Canon. My hands tremble slightly as I adjust the bouquet of white roses and blue hydrangeas.
"Ready, sweetheart?" my father asks, his eyes misty behind his glasses. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo, so proud.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Dad pats my hand where it rests in the crook of his arm, the gesture so familiar from childhood: his way of saying everything will be alright.
"He's a good man," Dad says quietly. "Different than what your mother and I imagined for you, but a good man."
"The best," I manage to whisper.
The wedding coordinator signals us, and the music changes. This is it. The moment I've both dreamed about and somehow never quite believed would happen.
The doors open, and suddenly all eyes are on me. The ballroom of the historic Plaza Hotel has been transformed into a winter wonderland—white flowers, crystal accents, thousands of twinkling lights creating the effect of stars. It's breathtaking, elegant without being ostentatious, exactly what I wanted.
But I barely register any of it. Because there, at the end of the aisle, is Michael.
He stands tall and impossibly handsome in his custom tuxedo, watching me with an expression of such naked adoration that my eyes immediately fill with tears. This brilliant, complex, sometimes difficult man is about to become my husband.The thought is simultaneously the most natural and most extraordinary realization of my life.
Dad and I begin our walk, my couture gown, which yes, cost more than my parents' house, a fact my mother has mentioned approximately seventeen times, flowing behind me in a cascade of Italian silk and handmade lace.
Michael insisted on paying for it, overriding my protests with a simple "Please let me give you this." How could I say no when he looked at me like that?
As we move slowly down the aisle, I allow myself to really look at our guests. Everyone who matters to us is here, witnessing this moment.
Ethan sits in the front row, looking almost unrecognizable in a suit instead of his usual flannel and jeans. The reserved blacksmith has become a surprising friend over the past two years, a steady presence at family gatherings. His girlfriend sits beside him, her hand in his, their connection obvious even from a distance.
Next to them is David, who is now fully recovered. His girlfriend catches my eye and gives me an encouraging thumbs-up that makes me smile through my tears.
Jack, the baby of the Morrison family, grins broadly as I pass. The rodeo star cleaned up nicely for the occasion, though his cowboy boots peek out beneath his tuxedo pants. His girlfriend looks stunning despite their travel fatigue.
The Morrison brothers. My new family. Each so different, yet united by their fierce loyalty and the unmistakable Morrison determination.
My gaze shifts to my side of the aisle—college friends, my cousins, colleagues who've become friends. My mother in thefront row, already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The journey to this moment hasn't always been smooth. Explaining to my academic parents why I was marrying my former boss required several lengthy conversations about power dynamics and genuine connection, but they've come to love Michael almost as much as I do.
Almost.
And then there are our colleagues. Vanessa, who became a true friend, sits with her husband. Thomas, who took over my position and exceeds even Michael's exacting standards. Various executives, board members, the people who form the professional family we've built.
But all these observations are peripheral, background details. Because with each step, Michael grows clearer, more defined, more real. And everything else fades away.
Finally, we reach the altar. My father kisses my cheek and places my hand in Michael's—the traditional gesture of giving away the bride that I insisted on keeping. Some traditions just feel right.
Michael's fingers are warm around mine. Steady. Sure.
"Hi," he whispers, just for me.
"Hi," I whisper back.
And then, to my horror, I burst into tears. Not delicate, photogenic tears that leave mascara intact, but real, overwhelming emotion that I can't contain.
Without missing a beat, Michael reaches into his pocket and produces a handkerchief, gently dabbing beneath my eyes.
"You'll never forgive me if I let you ruin that makeup," he murmurs, his voice tender and teasing. "I've been reliably informed it took three hours and cost more than my first car."
I laugh through my tears, loving him so much in that moment I can hardly bear it. This is Michael—always prepared, always thinking ahead, always taking care of me even in the smallest ways.
"I love you," I mouth silently.
