Against his will, he is my best man. He fought me on it, more than once, telling me I should pick someone safer, someone steadier, someone who wasn’t him. But there was never anyone else. No one else has been beside me in every battle, through every wound, holding the weight I couldn’t. If I am here now, steady enough to do this, it’s because of him.
He walks down the aisle with Nadia.
They move in sync, a perfect balance of danger and grace. Her gown is periwinkle satin that flows like poured water, the fabric graceful under the light. It clings to her hips and falls in a clean line to the floor, and when she passes, the back of it reveals skin in a plunge so deep it stills the entire room. Heads turn. No one dares to whisper. Nadia doesn’t so much as flinch; she has always walked like the ground belongs to her. She is exactly what Lily has always needed at her side—her fiercest shield and her sharpest blade.
Nik’s suit is cut to precision, every line clean, with the periwinkle bow tie I forced on him sitting neatly at his throat. He hated it. Told me I was trying to make him look like an idiot. And still, he wears it for me, for her, because he knows what today means.
As the two of them pass, the music swells around us. The guitar line curls upward, soft and slow, and for the first time since dawn, I feel my lungs open. This part of the plan, the most fragile piece of the entire day, is exactly where it should be.
They take their places, Nadia like a sentinel, Nik just off to my right. The aisle stretches empty in front of me now, petals unmoving on the floor. The room holds still, waiting. I know the next sound I hear, the next footsteps that break this silence, will be hers.
“Are you nervous?”
Nik’s voice slips in low and close, breaking through my thoughts. He leans just enough that I feel his breath brush my ear, a solid weight of a hand settling on my shoulder, like he’s bracing me for the answer.
I don’t take my eyes off the room. “No.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, disbelieving. “You’re getting everything you ever wanted, you know that?”
That pulls me out of my head for a second. I glance at him, and there’s nothing teasing in his face. It’s just truth, laid out plainly, the way only a brother can say it.
“I know,” I admit, softer than I intend. The words almost catch in my throat.
His mouth curves. He pats me on the back, steady and firm, like he’s putting the last piece in place. And then his gaze shifts past me, up, a flicker of movement I feel more than see.
I follow it.
Lily is at the top of the stairs, and the music fades from “A Thousand Years”to the more traditional “At Last”by Etta James.
She stands there for a single, suspended heartbeat, one hand sliding along the carved banister like she’s grounding herself before stepping into this new life. Earlier, just in the dress alone, she was beautiful—breathtaking, even. But right now? Right now she looks like something beyond reach. Immaculate. Untouchable.
Her hair has been coaxed into wide, loose curls, the kind that catch the light with every turn of her head. A few strands frame her face, softening her features, while the rest are pinned up, leaving the curve of her neck exposed. Her makeup glows against her skin—warm pinks, soft gold, and the faint shimmer of sparkle at her eyes that makes her look like someone brushed stars across her cheeks. I cannot believe she is real, not when she stands there like this, not when every inch of her feels like something I dreamed and never thought I’d touch.
And then she starts to move. The confidence in her steps is quiet but unshakable, and it is the exact opposite of the way she yelled at me four hours ago—her voice breaking over how I knew too much about her favorite things, how I made her feel exposed, how she swore she wouldn’t let me get that close. I saw the fear in her then, and I feared it too—that she would run, that she would leave, that she would choose a world without me in it.
I want to say that if she had run, I would have let her go. That I wouldn’t have hunted her down, dragged her back, made her see exactly what I feel. I want to say that, but I know myself too well. I know I would have burned everything in my path until she had no choice but to stand here and see it—the truth of what I want for her.
As long as she is mine, I will give her everything. The life she used to dream about in secret—the house, the kids, the safety, the quiet. I will crush every demon inside me so deep into the dark that they will never climb high enough to touch her. She will never see them. They will never lay a hand on the girl who is pure sunlight.
I won. I fucking won the jackpot. She is mine, and she’s here of her own will. She has seen me at my worst—seen what I am capable of, watched me take a man’s life, seen just how far obsession has already carried me—and she still wants me. And that is the difference.
The first step she takes toward me cracks something open in my chest. It’s slow at first, measured, like she knows exactly how painful it is for her to be so far away from me, when she is moments from being everything to me. Her dress skims over the petals Mia laid down a few minutes ago, the fabric whispering across the floor, and the world narrows into that sound, into her.
Every step she takes strips the world away from me. By the time she’s two-thirds down the aisle, it feels like there is a tunnel between us, a single straight line that nothing else can cross. The flowers blur, the gold ribbons hanging from the chandeliers blur, even Nik beside me is nothing but a shadow at the edge of my vision. My entire body tunes itself to her—the sound of her heels on the floor, the gentle sway of her dress, the rise and fall of her breath.
Her eyes stay locked on mine the entire way, and the closer she gets, the more unbearable it is. My pulse hammers in my ears, hot blood roaring, and I can feel a bead of sweat slide down the back of my neck even though the room is cool. My hands flex at my sides. I want to reach for her, hold her close, but I stand still because she deserves to finish this walk on her own terms.
When she finally crosses the last stretch, she slows even more, like she’s savoring this—every step an act of quiet defiance, proof that she isn’t afraid of me, proof that she chooses this. Chooses me.
And then she is here, right in front of me.
She tilts her chin up, wide curls brushing her cheeks, and for a split second, we just stare at each other.
Her lips part slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting, and in a voice that’s soft enough that no one else could hear it if they tried, she says, “Hi.”
“Hello,” I whisper back, and the officiant who I forgot was even standing there clears his throat.
I can’t hear anything. The priest is speaking—something about the covenant, about standing together, about the weight and sanctity of marriage—but it’s all distant, muffled, like he’sunderwater. The entire world fades to oblivion, and only she stands in front of me.
