She doesn’t walk—she commands the aisle. That dress clings and drapes like it was made just for her, sculpted silk in soft ivory with the barest whisper of blush. The off-the-shoulder sleeves float around her arms like smoke, and the slit in her skirt moves with her stride, confident and deliberate.
The bodice is structured, corseted—sharp where the rest is soft. A line of pearls scatters like stars along the plunge of her neckline, subtle but deliberate. She looks like a secret and a promise, all at once.
Her hair is swept back into a soft, low twist at the nape of her neck, not overly done, just effortless and polished—like she woke up knowing she was the most powerful woman in the room. Her lips are painted a deep merlot color. My color. My undoing.
She’s not just beautiful. She’s the kind of love that carves its name into you, permanent and soft and deep—a storm wrapped in silk. A woman who knows exactly who she is—and chose me anyway.
And for the first time in my life, I understand what it means to kneel without ever hitting the ground.
She doesn’t bring me to my knees—shemakes me want to kneel, like it’sholy.I’ve never bowed to anything in my life… until her. AndStella Carrington is the only altar I’ll ever need.
Even gods have their reckoning. But right now, I’d worship her forever.
She stops in front of me, her father kisses her cheek, and he walks back to his seat. Ansel steps forward, carefully taking Stella’s bouquet of black calla lilies and blush peonies—the same kind I gave her that night in Agave Hills.
I have to wipe the tears from my face.
Huxley begins to speak, his voice steady as the wind curls around us, the waves soft in the distance. I don’t hear much of it—just enough to ground me. Enough to make it real.
Then it’s time.
We’re saying our vows.
“Stella—From the first time I saw you, I knew I’d spend the rest of my life trying to keep up. You are fire and velvet. Sharp and soft in ways I still don’t fully understand, but I want to spend forever trying.
You don’t just light up rooms. You set them alight. You challenge me. You ground me. You see through every mask I’ve ever worn—and somehow, you still chose me.
I promise to show up for you, even when it’s hard. I promise to listen when I’d rather speak, to learn when I think I already know. I promise to love you in ways that feel like truth—not perfection, but presence.
I vow to give you the kind of love that doesn’t flinch in the dark.
You are the only altar I will ever kneel before, and the only future I’ve ever been sure of.”
Stella
I’m standing at the altar, Donovan reciting his vows to me, and panic is setting in.
Why am I panicking?
I’m marrying my best friend. The love of my life. The man who continues to choose me, day after day.
And still—something in me wavers.
I push it down, swallowing hard, forcing my breath to steady as he finishes.
“You are the only altar I will ever kneel before,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “and the only future I’ve ever been sure of.”
Tears are pouring from his eyes—not sad ones, but tears that carry weight. Hope. A promise of forever.
And then it’s my turn.
I take a breath. My voice doesn’t shake.
“Donovan, I’ve never been the girl who believed in fate. But then you showed up—loud, stubborn, and impossible to ignore—and somehow, you became my always. You see the parts of me I try to hide. The ones I armor in sarcasm, in control, in lipstick and silk. And still, you stay. Still, you choose me.I’ve loved you through youth and distance, through storms and silence. And somehow, even now, I find myself loving you more than I ever meant to. More than I should. Today, I’m not promising perfection. I'm not promising to be easy, or quiet, or soft. But I am promising this: I will fight for us, even when we’re splintered. I will carry your name like it’s mine—even when I curse it. And I will love you in the small, impossible ways that matter most: in every coffee I bring you. In every look that says, 'I see you, and you are still mine.' In every ordinary moment that somehow feels like home. You are my beginning. You are the storm and the shelter. And today—I choose you.”
Ansel hands me a handkerchief, and I dab at my eyes, praying I don’t look like a raccoon in my wedding photos.
Huxley says a few closing words, and we exchange bands—simple, silver, perfectly paired to my engagement ring.
