I may be scared, but I’m ready.
I’m walking toward forever.
The church is breathtaking. Bathed in golden light, the high ceilings soar above us, adorned with intricate arches and stained glass that scatter rainbows across the aisle. White roses and baby’s breath cascade down the pews, intertwined with soft ivory tulle that moves ever so slightly with each passing step. It smells like hope, like something sacred. Like her.
But my chest feels tight. My palms, cold and clammy. I tug at the cuffs of my uniform for the hundredth time as I glance at the church doors.
Any minute now.
I run a hand through my hair, then down my face, trying to calm the storm inside me. This is it. No turning back, no running—not that I ever would. Not from her. But damn, my heart’s thudding so hard I wonder if the people in the front row can hear it.
“Don’t faint,” CJ, one of my army friends and colleagues, mutters beside me, just loud enough for me to hear. “He ain’t gonna catch you.”
Sebastian shrugs with that shitty smile, “Royalties don’t do heavy work.”
I chuckle, the sound short and tense. “What kind of a best man are you?”
He smirks, all swagger and mischief. “A smart one.”
They share a fist bump and I can’t help but feel less tense.
Sebastian pauses, head tilting toward the entrance. “Isabel’s getting out of the car.”
CJ voice shifts; lower, softer, filled with awe. “Oh, wow, mate. She’s… she’s gorgeous.”
I glance toward the doors on instinct, aching to see her, but I force myself to wait. The anticipation makes it worse but I can already see Dad’s disappointed stare.
“You guys are not helping,” I mutter.
Sebastian grins, not the least bit sorry. “Hey, at least I didn’t tell you I forgot the wedding rings.”
I freeze. “You what?”
He bursts out laughing and pats his pocket. “Relax. I’ve got them.”
“You absolute idiot.” I shake my head, but even that small moment makes me breathe a little easier. Just a little. I can’t help but wonder how many rules he had to break just to be standing here today. Royalty doesn’t play best man—hell, they’re not supposed to stand beside anyone but a throne. And yet, here he is. Wearing the uniform like a badge of defiance, like a silent vow that some things—some people—are worth the rebellion.
Then I hear it—the soft echo of heels against stone, growing louder with every second. The guests shift in their seats. A hush ripples through the church.
I turn.
And everything stops.
There she is.
My bride.
Isabel steps through the doorway like a vision woven out of my dreams and the deepest corners of my soul. Her dress, simple but impossibly elegant, hugs her figure and flows behind her like a whisper. Lace trails down her arms and back, delicate and ethereal. Her veil is sheer, giving me a glimpse of the fire and softness in her eyes. My heart clenches. My throat burns. There’s this ache in my chest like my body’s trying to hold back a tidal wave of emotion, and losing.
She walks toward me with the grace of a woman who knows who she is—and the fragility of someone holding something precious.
Us.
This.
Everything.
When she finally reaches me, I don’t wait. I lift her veil and kiss her, soft and reverent. The guests laugh, and I hear someone whistle, but I don’t care. I needed to touch her. To prove to myself she’s real.
