He laughs before pecking my lips.
“Engaged life already wild,” he says softly.
“Just wait until I’m your wife.”
He lets a mixture of a groan laced with laughter. I slide off him careful to hold every drop of him in me. I plan to ride his face when we get in the house. I smooth my dress down, adjusting myself like we didn’t just turn the garage into something out of a porno.
He fixes himself too, shaking his head slightly.
“You dangerous,” he tells me.
I reach for the door handle, glancing back at him with a slow, satisfied smile.
“You proposed to me,” I remind him. “You signed up for this.”
And as we step out of the car and head toward the elevator with his hand at the small of my back, I know one thing for sure. The night isn’t even close to over.
SOLEIL'S SANCTUARY (EPILOGUE)
When I said I didn’t want a long engagement I meant that shit. I wasn’t about to let life drag its feet with something this sacred. Not after everything we lost. Not after everything we survived. I knew what I wanted. I wanted Zaria as my wife. I wanted her name tied to mine in ink and covenant. I wanted God and everybody we loved most to witness it.
We kept it small. Intimate but immaculate.
We rented out a private estate tucked just outside Winston Hills. Glass walls and candlelight. White orchids spilling over gold pedestals. Velvet chairs lined in perfect rows. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t excessive. It was perfectly luxe without being tacky.
Knox showed up like the culinary powerhouse he is, running the entire Olive and Oak team with quiet intensity. His waitstaff passed hors d’oeuvres that looked like art. Lamb chops with arosemary glaze that made grown men close their eyes. Truffle risotto so smooth it felt sinful.
Dana and the Maison Noir crew handled the bar. Top shelf everything. Custom cocktails named after Lena. After us. “The Reverence.” Dark rum, blackberry, and smoked cinnamon. Strong enough to remind you that love is bold.
None of that mattered when the doors opened.
When she walked in.
Pastor Barré stood tall at the end of the aisle, hand tucked at the bend of her arm like he’d been preparing for this his whole life. He wasn’t just officiating. He was giving her away like the proud and protective father he was.
Zaria was… God.
Her gown was a cream-colored silk and structured. It was hugging her body like it like the threads were made just to fit her for this moment. Off-the-shoulder, dramatic train, diamonds at her throat catching every flicker of candlelight. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was certain. Every step steady. Every glance locked on me.
I forgot how to breathe.
Pastor cleared his throat once we met at the altar. His voice was strong when he started. It wasn’t strong for long.
He looked at her and said, “Who gives this woman to be married?”
And before he could finish, Zaria squeezed his hand and said, “You do, Dad,” she giggled.
That was it. That man nearly folded. What hadn’t Lena done to prepare us for her departure. She made sure Zaria and I had each other. She made sure Zaria had the parents she always deserved. She made sure that after the storm passed; the sun would shine.
His eyes filled instantly. He turned his face for a second like he needed to regroup, and I swear half the room started sniffling behind him.
When he began the ceremony again, his voice carried weight. Not just scripture. History. He spoke about redemption. About second chances. About the way grief can hollow you out and still leave space for new joy.
When it was time for vows, Zaria went first.
She thanked Lena.
She thanked her for loving me first. For shaping me. For leaving behind a blueprint of compassion and depth that allowed me to recognize the kind of love she carried.
