Her breath catches. For a heartbeat, all I see is the long shadow of her first wedding, the bruise of it. Then she exhales, eyes wet and bright, and holds out her hand. "Yes." Like a secret she's finally allowed to tell. "Yes!"
I tie the makeshift ring around her finger. It looks absurd and perfect. Merlin swears softly and wipes at his eyes, then pretends he didn't.
"Small ceremony." I stand and pull her into my arms. "Just us. Merlin as witness. Nothing like?—"
"Nothing like before." She leans on my shoulder. She pulls back, smiling in that way that feels like sunlight. "Something real. Something ours."
Merlin clears his throat, back to brisk. "I know a magistrate here in Prague. Very discreet. Could be done tomorrow if you wanted."
"Tomorrow's too soon." Vivianne's voice is soft, then softer, to me, "But maybe in a year?"
"As you wish, ma chérie." The words settle in my bones like relief.
Later, when Merlin leaves with a hug that cracks my ribs, we stand in the doorway and look at the piece of string on her finger, and then at each other.
"Happy?" I ask.
"Yes." Her smile is real, and for the first time, I believe it.
The news plays on the café's small TV. Images of her father being led away in handcuffs. Prescott screaming about his rights. The Swiss treasury announcing the largest repatriation of stolen assets in history.
Vivianne doesn't even look at the screen.
THIRTY-TWO
Epilogue: Vivianne
One Year Later
The dress cost eighty-nine euros.
I found it in a tiny boutique in Prague, hanging between a vintage coat and a leather jacket that had seen better days. Simple cream silk, tea-length, with delicate cap sleeves and buttons down the back that I can actually undo myself. The shopkeeper tried to show me something fancier, with beads, lace, and a train. I just smiled and bought the simple one.
Now, standing in the garden of Paul's chalet above Lac Léman, wearing this dress I chose myself with wildflowers in my hair instead of a veil, I finally understand what a wedding should feel like.
Joy. Not performance or transaction or fear. Joy.
"You look beautiful, my dear." Dr. Phillips offers me his arm. He flew in from Boston yesterday, grumbling about airlines and his old bones, but his eyes were bright with happiness.
The garden is perfect—apple blossoms and early roses, the lake glittering below, mountains rising like witnesses all around. We strung lights between the trees and borrowed chairs from the local café. The altar is just an arch of branches Paul and Merlin built yesterday, threaded with spring flowers I picked this morning.
Everyone who matters is here.
Merlin waits at the altar beside Paul, both of them in simple suits, though Merlin has added a pocket square of brilliant blue that matches the spring sky. He's holding the rings—not the massive diamond set Prescott tried to chain me with, but simple gold bands Paul and I designed together, inscribed with the coordinates of the café in Paris where we first truly saw each other.
But it's Paul who stops me cold.
He's watching me walk toward him with an expression I've only seen in his paintings—wonder and desire and something sacred all mixed together. His hands are steady (mine are shaking), his eyes never leaving my face as Dr. Phillips and I make our way down the improvised aisle.
No Wagner's wedding march. Instead, a recording of Nina Simone singing "Feeling Good" drifts from speakers hidden in the trees.Because it is a new dawn, a new day, a new life.
And I'm feeling good.
"Who gives this woman to be married?" The officiant asks—not a priest but a local magistrate who speaks beautiful French-accented English and didn't ask questions about our somewhat complicated legal status.
"She gives herself freely." Dr. Phillips speaks the words we rehearsed, replacing the traditional patriarchal transfer. "But I'm honored to walk beside her."
He kisses my cheek, whispers "Be happy," and places my hand in Paul's.
