"Yes," Maddy agrees, wiping a stray tear. "And you showed him what was actually worth having. Now, go out there and finish the job."
Savvy hands me my bouquet, a wild, unruly thing bursting with crimson dahlias and deep violet anemones, and the three of us slip out of the bridal suite. The corridor is quiet, all the guests already seated, and our heels click against the marble in a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like a countdown. Maddy squeezes my hand once, hard, then she and Savvy take their places ahead of me.
I stop outside the ballroom doors. Through the seam between them, I catch a sliver of candlelight and the low hum of hundreds of people pretending to whisper. My heart is hammering so loud I'm sure the string quartet can hear it.
Then the doors swing open, and the world goes white.
The room is an explosion of color. I spent months designing this, fighting against every traditional instinct Betty Taylor possesses. There are no white lilies here. Instead, the room is filled with aggressive florals, deep reds, vivid purples, and shocking oranges that climb the marble pillars like wildfire andspill over the edges of the altar in a riot of texture. It is loud, it is messy, and it is beautiful. It looks exactly like the woman Brooks fell in love with.
I walk down the aisle, the silk of my dress hissing against the rose-petal-strewn floor. I see the faces of the New York elite, the board of directors, and even Penelope Vanderbilt's second cousins, who look like they are trying to calculate the cost of the flowers.
Then, I see Brooks.
He is standing at the end of the aisle, dressed in a black tuxedo that fits him so precisely it leaves no room for doubt about who he is.
He looks every bit the “Shark”, intimidating, powerful, and unyielding. But as our eyes meet, the mask doesn’t crack; it vanishes.
His jaw goes tight, his throat working as he swallows hard. His eyes darken with a raw, unadulterated emotion that makes the air vanish from my lungs. For a man who lives his life by spreadsheets and exit strategies, he looks utterly, wonderfully lost in the moment.
When I reach him, he doesn’t wait for the officiant to give him permission. He reaches out and takes both of my hands in his, his grip firm and warm, anchoring me to the spot.
“You’re late,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough rumble that only I can hear.
“I had to make sure the florals didn’t start a riot,” I say, my heart swelling until it feels like it might burst.
The ceremony flows with traditional readings and quiet elegance. But when it comes time for the vows, Brooks doesn't pull out a piece of paper. He doesn't look at a teleprompter. He looks at me, his fingers lacing through mine.
"I spent years believing that life was a series of managed risks," he says, his voice carrying through the silent ballroomwith the weight of an absolute truth. "I thought that if I could construct the perfect image, find the right person to fill the gaps in my life, I could protect the name I was born into. I wanted someone who would play the part and follow the script."
He squeezes my hands.
"But you’ve never followed anyone's script, Ivy. From the moment we met, you challenged every assumption I'd made about what my life was supposed to look like. You showed me that a life lived behind walls isn't a life at all. You weren't a replacement for the things I was missing. You were everything I didn't know I was allowed to want. I don't want a performance, Ivy. I want the woman who never let me settle for less than real. I want you, for every minute of the rest of my life. No contingencies. No fallback plan. Only us."
By the time he finishes, I can't see the crowd through my tears. I take a shaky breath, my gaze locked on his.
"When we first met, I thought I knew exactly what this would be," I say, my voice heavy with emotion. "I thought I understood the terms, the expectations, the role I was supposed to play. But you saw past all of that. You saw the girl who showed up in a leather jacket when everyone expected silk. You saw the woman from River Bend who didn't fit into your carefully ordered world, and instead of asking me to change, you made room for me exactly as I am. You're the first person who ever made me feel like I didn't have to apologize for taking up space. I don't want careful anymore, Brooks. I don't want calculated. I want you. The man who shared a burger with me under the stars and showed up at my door."
When the officiant finally declares us husband and wife, Brooks doesn't wait for the invitation. He pulls me flush against his chest, his hand cupping the back of my head, and kisses me with a hunger that makes it very clear propriety is no longer hisconcern. It is a kiss that makes the front rows squirm in their seats, and I love every second of it.
The reception is a riot of laughter and music. I watch as Betty Taylor actually shares a laugh with my mother over a tray of mini-sliders, and I see Preston Taylor, the most feared man on Wall Street, doing a clumsy, genuine two-step with Maddy. The “stability” the board wanted isn’t a mask anymore; it is the foundation of a life that feels, finally, fully lived.
But as the clock ticks toward midnight, a familiar tug pulls at my waist.
“The car is waiting,” Brooks whispers into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “I’ve done my duty. I’ve shaken every hand and played the part of the happy groom.”
“And are you?” I ask, turning in his arms as the band plays the final notes of the night.
“I’m the luckiest man in this city,” he says, his eyes burning with a fire that makes my knees weak. “But I’m tired of sharing you. I want my wife to myself.”
We slip out the back entrance of the St. Regis, dodging a final few photographers before the SUV pulls away from the curb. The city is a blur of lights and shadows, but inside the car, the air is thick with the realization that the “term” of our agreement is now forever.
When we finally reach the penthouse, Brooks doesn’t even wait for the door to close before he has me pinned against the mahogany paneling. The lights of the foyer are dim, the only sound the distant, peaceful hum of the city thirty floors below.
"Ivy Taylor," he says, his voice rough with possession.
He reaches for the row of tiny silk buttons running down the back of my dress. His hands, usually so precise, are trembling.
"I've been wanting to take this dress off you since the second you stepped onto that aisle," he says, the first button giving way under his touch.
