Outside, January whispers against the walls of stone and steel, but in here?
It’s warm. Lush. Alive.
Cecilia’s idea, of course.
She said if we were going to do a wedding—our wedding—it would be on her terms.
That meant a theme.
That meant food from everywhere—dumplings and dolmas, sushi and souvlaki, grilled cheese, caviar, lobster, pasta, brisket, pernil, and of course, all matter of sourdough breads.
Each dish is a nod to someone we love.
Someone who shaped us.
It meant that all the women wear white.
All the men wear black.
Except us.
My wife—my beautiful, brilliant, fierce wife—is standing across from me in a gown of brilliant blue.
The color of royalty. The color of courage. The color of the Aegean Sea at dawn.
Her hair is wild and loose, tumbling to her shoulders in fat, glossy curls, crowned in winter roses and tiny pearl pins. Her lips are red. Her smile is trembling.
I’m wearing white slacks, a royal blue jacket tailored within a millimeter of its life.
Beneath it pounds heart that doesn’t give a single beat unless it’s for her.
We don’t look away from each other. Not even for a second.
The world narrows to the space between us.
The officiant—an old Greek Orthodox priest with a soft voice and a steady presence—speaks words I don’t fully hear. I know the vows. I’ve memorized every single one.
In Greek. In English. In truth.
But none of it matters unless she says yes.
Unless she stays.
Unless she chooses this life.
Chooses me.
When it’s time to speak, I reach for her hands and see the shimmer in her eyes—emotion, wonder, love.
My voice doesn’t shake. But something inside me does. Because this is the moment.
And Cecilia?
She is everything.
My home.
My ruin.
