“Thanks, Dad. Please don’t get tears on the silk.”
He pulled back, blowing his nose loudly. “I’m just so proud. And proud of myself for not fighting the system.” He gestured to Michael. “I told your brother he has to walk you. The idea of a father ‘giving away’ his daughter like cattle? It’s archaic, Tess. It’s the patriarchy manifest! But Michael? Michael represents the sibling bond of shared trauma and survival. It’s much more spiritually sound.”
“Plus,” Michael whispered to me, “he’s afraid he’ll trip in his sandals.”
“I heard that!” Dad said, but he hugged Michael anyway. “Go on. Break the chains of tradition, you two.”
Michael offered me his arm. “Let’s go make you a Mrs. again.”
We stepped through the doors and into the late December sunshine. It was mild, one of those perfect California winter days that made you forget the season. The garden was in full bloom thanks to Patrick’s insistence on hiring a team of landscapers.
And there, at the end of the aisle, was Patrick.
The look on his face—the way his eyes widened, the way his breath visibly caught—grounded me. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored tuxedo, his ginger curls neatly combed, his blue eyes never leaving mine as I walked toward him.
Standing beside him was Duncan MacLeod, who had flown in from Scotland to serve as best man.
As Michael placed my hand in Patrick’s, I felt the last lingering doubts dissolve. This was right. This was where I was meant to be.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Patrick whispered.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur. We had written our own vows, simple promises to love and support each other, to honor the past while building a future together, to raise our kids with patience and understanding. When Patrick slipped the wedding band onto my finger, joining it with the sapphire engagement ring I already wore, my hands were trembling.
“By the power vested in me,” the officiant said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Patrick’s kiss was gentle, reverent, but with an undercurrent of passion that promised more. When we turned to face our guests, the applause was deafening.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officiant announced, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. McCrae!”
The reception was held in a massive tent set up on the lawn, with long tables arranged to accommodate our large guest list. Kids darted between the tables, their formal clothes already rumpled. The catering staff looked simultaneously impressed and alarmed.
I spotted Duncan MacLeod near the bar, looking relieved to have a glass of scotch in hand. I made my way over to him.
“Duncan,” I said, smiling. “Surviving the Carideo-McCrae madness?”
“Just barely,” he laughed, raising his glass. “Though your father has some fascinating theories.” He sobered slightly. “I wanted to congratulate you, Theresa. And not just on the wedding. My legal team confirmed it—the revised CFIUS filing was approved without a hitch. The partnership is official.”
“That’s the best wedding gift I could ask for,” I said. “Thank you for sticking with us through the turbulence.”
“Worth every bump in the road.” He clinked his glass against my champagne flute. “To the future.”
“To the future.”
I left Duncan and scanned the crowd for my husband. I found Patrick near the edge of the tent, deep in conversation with a man I recognized from photos but hadn’t formally met yet—his cousin, Callum MacKenzie.
As I approached, I caught the tail end of their conversation. They stopped abruptly as I reached them, smoothing their expressions into matching masks of innocence.
“Plotting something?” I asked, slipping my arm through Patrick’s.
“Just catching up,” Patrick said, kissing my cheek. “Theresa, you remember Callum?”
“The cousin who knows everything,” I said, extending my hand. “Patrick told me you were the one who helped us... untangle the Arthur situation.”
Callum took my hand, his grip cool and firm. “I just helped out a family member in need. That’s what we do.”
“Well, I hope you’re not persuading my husband into any secret heists today,” I teased lightly. “We have a honeymoon to get to.”
Callum’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—it was sharp, assessing, and full of secrets. “Don’t worry, Theresa. I’m not collecting yet.”
