The upper level of the gallery had been transformed. White wooden chairs aligned in two neat sections flanked a simple white runner. Blush roses and white organza draped an arch at one end. At the other, sunlight poured through the tall windows, the Atlantic flashing white and blue beyond the glass. Elegant yet unassuming, exactly what he’d expect of the bride.
The space hummed, not with music yet, but with anticipation. The guests—friends, fellow club members, and coworkers—had looked forward to this union for months. Two people who had been to hell and back to find one another.
Rhys sat near the back, posture relaxed enough to pass for casual, except every muscle was disciplined into rigid control.
A hush fell when Cari appeared in a sweep of golden sunlight, her classic white gown flowing around her. She held a simple bouquet of white and blush roses in one hand; the other rested on the arm of her cousin Carlo, her only family in Florida.
Rhys’s attention drifted to the groom.
Nick Devlin wasn’t one to beam, but today, he came close as his bride approached. His gaze never once strayed. Not to the guests or to scan the shadows for possible threats. All he saw was her.
When Cari reached him and put her hands in his, he was a man who knew exactly what and who stood before him.His expression said everything: love, joy, possession without apology.
Rhys wouldn’t have been surprised if his friend proclaimed… Mine.
The officiant began, the ceremony unfolding with a simple sincerity that suited them. There was no spectacle or fluff. Just a man and a woman building a new life from the ashes, together.
When Dev spoke his vows, the weight of them settled over the room.
“I love you, Carina Brooklyn Denali, and promise to do so fiercely until I’m old and gray. I’ll lead when you ask it, and protect what’s entrusted to me. Your trust is a gift I will earn every day.”
Rhys recognized the structure beneath the words—choice, not control. Dev was pledging strength with respect. Power held, not imposed.
Cari’s vows followed, strong and steady.
“I love you, Nickolai Devlin. More than I ever thought possible. For half my life, you’ve proven you’ll love and cherish me and move mountains to keep me safe. I choose you and will follow because I know you will never lead me astray. I give my trust freely—until death, which I pray is when we’re old—gray optional.”
Caramel, honey-blonde, or scarlet, Cari was known to change things up, and her humor sparked a ripple of soft laughter. Beneath the humor, she wasn’t describing submission. She was describing agency—offering herself without fear.A kind of self-possession men who demanded control could never comprehend.
A dull ache filled Rhys’s chest. Envy, yes, but with a sharper edge beneath it. He refused to examine that edge. Not now, if ever.
A glint of pale blue caught his eye—soft, unexpected, pulling his attention before he could stop it.
Gaby sat three rows ahead with Emily and Alec. She wasn’t dressed to dazzle. She never was. Her dress skimmed rather than clung. Hair pinned up, a few rebellious curls escaping.
A single tear traced down her cheek. One quiet line of emotion she didn’t bother wiping away.
It struck him harder than it should have. She was happy for their friends—he knew that. But her face revealed her longing. For possibility, maybe. Or did she hunger for something safe and real, like him?
Rhys felt the pull as a physical thing.
She glanced up then turned her head—toward him.
As their eyes locked, there was no accusation. No plea. Just a soft, devastating look holding both want and resignation.A silent message he read with brutal clarity:
I heard you. I got the message. I won’t ask for more.
She looked away first, disengaging, and the bottom dropped out of his composure because a sudden, unwelcome awareness hit him. He might have made a mistake he couldn’t easily undo.
The ceremony concluded with a kiss. Dev and Cari, radiant and grounded.
A thought slipped past Rhys’s defenses—sudden and unwelcome.
What if this time walking away was the real danger?
***
Gaby lingered at the edge of the gallery-turned-reception hall, fingers curled around a champagne flute she hadn’t touched. Emily’s catering crew had moved with their usual magic—drapes lifted, chairs whisked away, clusters of round tables shimmered with crystal and pale blooms—and transitioned the ceremony space into a glowing reception hall.
