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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Seb

The church is full. Too full. Rows of impeccably dressed guests murmur softly, as sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, painting jewel-toned patterns across the stone floor. The air is filled with quiet anticipation, the sound of it somehow filling my head and drowning out my thoughts. I’ve been to hundreds of weddings in my life – hell, I’ve been best man at half a dozen of them – but this feels different. It’s like every beat of my heart is hammering a countdown to something I can’t undo.

Something I don’t want to undo.

My hands are shoved deep in my pockets, nerves flickering under my skin like live wires. I’m not nervous about the vows or the ceremony itself – I’m nervous about seeing her .

The pews are full of guests, faces I half-recognise from boardrooms and galas, men and women dressed in finery that costs more than some people’s annual salaries. They’re talking in whispers, like they know they’re about to witness something important, something more than just the sterile union of two wealthy families. I feel their gazes skim over me as I stand at the altar, their speculation a murmur of static in the back of my mind.

I don’t care about any of them.

My eyes lift to the altar flowers – white hydrangeas, lilies, roses – a statement of wealth and purity. What a fucking joke. The entire production is for show, a meticulously curated illusion of perfection for families that care more about legacy than love. I hate it.

I don’t care about the flowers that were imported from god-knows-where. I don’t care about the ridiculous cost of the gilded decorations or the delicate silk ribbons tied to every pew.

All I care about is her.

Elle. My wife-to-be.

I haven’t seen her since last night, and I can’t stop thinking about the small box I left with Candy to give her this morning. The pendant. The forget-me-not. A stupid little token – an impulse that clawed at me until I gave in. I’d told myself she might not even open it. That she might roll her eyes at it.

I exhale sharply and glance down at the polished floor, counting the veins in the marble to stop myself from fidgeting. I’m not nervous – not in the way people think. I’m not afraid of standing up here, of making vows I’m not ready for, of the act of it all. I’m nervous because this is it.

I go rigid as the soft, sweeping notes of a string quartet spill through the high arches of the church. It’s slow and haunting, a melody that twists and unfurls through the air like something alive. The doors at the far end swing open, and I swear the shift in the room is physical. Everyone holds their breath.

Including me.

The world slows to a crawl the second Elle steps through the doors. My pulse is louder than the violin’s strings, my chest tightening as I take her in.

She stands framed in the doorway like a painting come to life, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight streaming through the stained glass. She’s luminous. Effortlessly, unfairly so.

Her dress is simple – soft, flowing, not ostentatious like some women might wear – and made of delicate ivory silk that clings to her shape, pooling slightly around her feet like ripples of water. It flows with every step she takes, her hips moving with that quiet confidence that always gets to me. Tiny beads glint like dew drops on her bodice, their shimmer catching the light, but all I can focus on is her.

I don’t know what I expected her to wear – something stiffer, more bridal, perhaps – but this feels like her. Like a woman who’s made of defiance and softness in equal measure. Stunning and breath-taking.

Her golden hair is twisted back in a way that makes her look like royalty, a few strands curling softly to frame her face. Her cheeks are flushed, though whether it’s from nerves or defiance, I can’t tell.

She’s the perfect blend of confidence and grace – her essence.

But it’s the delicate flash at her throat that steals the breath from my lungs.

I freeze as my chest tightens and my gaze zeroes in on the pale pink sapphire forget-me-not pendant resting above her collarbone, nestled in place against her skin as though it’s always belonged there. It catches the light, drawing my gaze like a lodestone.

I hadn’t let myself hope she’d wear it. I almost hadn’t sent it at all. It felt like a pathetic offering – too delicate, too personal for a marriage arranged like a sordid business deal.

But she’s wearing it. It sits there like a private confession, a silent whisper between us. A thousand unspoken words wrapped in a silvery chain and a pink stone – small, delicate, hers . The forget-me-not in a pale pink sapphire is so subtle, but I see it as clearly as if it were neon. My pulse stutters at the sight of it.

A piece of me, resting against her skin.

The sight unmoors me, shakes something loose deep in my chest. And I realise I’m smiling. A stupid, helpless smile I couldn’t suppress if I tried.

She lifts her eyes, meeting mine, and for half a heartbeat, one breathless moment, the world stops turning.

It’s all there – every unspoken word, every question hanging heavy in the air between us. She looks...steady. Poised. But there’s something in her gaze that she doesn’t want me to see. A flicker of vulnerability, or maybe doubt.

Then her chin lifts in that way that’s so distinctly Elle , like she’s daring me to think she’s anything less than perfect. And just like that, the moment’s gone. She looks away, moving forward down the aisle.

Her brother, Aiden, escorts her with the solemn precision of someone determined not to let their emotions show. I briefly wonder why it’s not her father walking her down the aisle, but then she distracts me again and the thought is gone.

She’s untouchable and perfect, and I’m reminded of every stupid little detail I’ve ever loved about her. The way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The way her laugh sounded when she let herself be free .

Now she’s here, in front of me, wearing my pendant.

For a split second, it doesn’t matter that this wedding started as a lie. That we’re standing here because of pressure and legacy. Because when Elle stops at the altar and lifts her chin, something stirs in me – a terrifying, hopeful ache I can’t name.

The forget-me-nots are small, delicate, simple.

Just like the first version of us – two kids with nothing but time and dreams, sketching flowers on scrap paper.

And now?

Now, I’m starting to hope that maybe we can sketch something real together.

A lump catches in my throat as she moves closer, the music swelling around us. I don’t hear it. I don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in my ears and the pounding of my heart as I drink her in. I notice everything – how her chin lifts ever so slightly as though daring the room to look at her, the slight tremble of her hand on her brother’s arm, the way her steps are perfectly measured, even though her chest rises and falls like she’s trying to catch her breath.

Aiden walks beside her like a soldier on duty, his face is carved from stone as he leads her forward. I don’t miss the tension in Elle’s hand on his arm, the slight flutter of her steps, as though they’re not as steady as they should be.

My brows pull together, suspicion prickling at the back of my mind. Elle’s always had this unshakable poise – it’s like breathing to her. But now…something’s off .

She stops at the altar and suddenly, she’s here. Close enough that I can see the faint smattering of freckles along her collarbone, the delicate line of her throat. The pendant winks at me like a secret we’re sharing.

Her brother hands her over with a scowl, the kind of look that says ‘hurt her and I’ll bury you’. He doesn’t have to say it. I meet his glare with a small nod, silently promising I won’t.

Aiden clears his throat, breaking the moment as he reluctantly places Elle’s hand in mine. I see the way he looks at me – like he wants to kill me, but he won’t, not yet. Not here.

“Take care of her,” he mutters under his breath.

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from her, as my fingers wrap gently around hers. Her hand is warm, delicate, but I feel the faintest squeeze of warning. Don’t screw this up, it says. Don’t you dare.

I won’t , I reply silently. Not if I have any say in it.

When I take Elle’s hand in mine, my thumb brushes her knuckles on instinct. She’s warm, soft, but her grip trembles. I don’t miss it. For a split second, her fingers tighten like she’s steadying herself, and when I glance at her face, I catch it – that flicker of unease beneath the mask of her perfectly composed features.

I lower my voice, keeping my words private, for her alone. “Elle?”

Her eyes dart to mine, the faintest breath catching in her throat. “Are you okay?” I murmur.

She hesitates, the lie forming behind her lips before she speaks. “I’m fine.”

I let the words hang there, heavy with everything she’s not saying. My gut tells me something’s wrong – something beyond the dress, the flowers, the room full of people expecting a performance. She’s too pale beneath the soft flush of her cheeks, and I see the way she shifts her weight, how she draws in a slightly unsteady breath.

It’s quiet, too quiet, and her voice doesn’t match the set of her jaw or the flash of her eyes. I narrow my gaze, not buying it for a second. “Elle?—”

Her walls slam back into place before I can push any further. She shakes her head – barely a movement, but I see it.

Not here. Not now.

My chest tightens, frustration coiling low in my stomach. I don’t push her, even though every part of me wants to. Instead, I squeeze her hand gently, a silent message I hope she understands. A promise wrapped in silence. I’ll find out later. I’ll fix it. Whatever it is.

But her eyes stay forward, unblinking.

The officiant begins, his words a distant murmur compared to the noise in my head. I keep one ear on Elle, the way her breathing hitches and steadies, the way she shifts her weight almost imperceptibly. My instincts hum, coiled and sharp. Something isn’t right.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see my father.

He’s smiling. Smiling. Not just his usual polite, public veneer, but something else. Something real. And that makes my skin crawl. My father’s happiness comes at a price, always. I know him too well to believe it’s a coincidence.

I file that away for later, adding it to the list of things I need to dig into.

“Sebastian,” the officiant says, pulling me back to the present. I blink, realising it’s my turn to speak. I turn fully to Elle. It feels like stepping into the eye of a storm. The rest of the world disappears.

I look at Elle. Really look at her. And for a second, I forget the words I’m supposed to say. I forget everything but the way she’s looking at me, her eyes guarded but shining. Like she’s daring me to mean what I say.

And I do.

“I take you, Elle, to be my wife,” I say, my voice low, steady. “To have and to hold, from this day forward.” My thumb brushes her knuckles as I continue. “For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, until death do us part.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch the faintest shift in her eyes, like my words chipped away at something. Just a little.

“I take you, Sebastian, to be my husband…”

Her voice is soft, but there’s a steadiness to it. A strength that’s so uniquely her . The weight on my chest lifts, replaced by something else entirely – an ache I don’t have a name for.

When it’s over – when the rings are on our fingers and the officiant finally declares us husband and wife – I don’t hesitate. I lean in, careful, deliberate, and press the gentlest kiss to her lips. It’s barely there, nothing more than a brush of contact, but I feel the way she stills. The way her breath catches, just for a second.

And when I pull back, I see it. The faintest pink dusting her cheeks. She felt it too.

I keep my gaze locked on hers, searching for what I can’t say aloud. What happened, Elle?

Her expression stays composed, but her eyes – those stormy eyes – betray her.

As we turn to face the crowd, her hand still tucked in mine, the room erupts into applause. I smile for the cameras, for the spectacle we’ve created, but my thumb traces the edge of her palm – a silent message just for her.

Then I see my father’s satisfied smile again and the knot in my gut tightens. The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

My father doesn’t do happiness. Not like this. He smiles for cameras, grins when closing deals, wears pride like a mask – but this is different. His shoulders are loose, his mouth curved in something that isn’t practiced or forced. It’s unsettling.

Because my father’s happiness always comes at a price.

I know it like I know the weight of his expectations. My father is never pleased unless he’s gained something – something that costs someone else dearly.

I glance at Elle again. The flush on her cheeks has faded. Her lips are pressed too tightly together, and the pendant at her throat moves with the shallow rise and fall of her breath.

The suspicion gnaws at me, burning behind my ribs. What does he know? What did he do ?

I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll find out. About Elle. About my father. About all of it.

Because right now, there’s a girl in pink sapphire forget-me-nots standing next to me, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone – including myself – ruin this. She isn’t just part of some plan. She’s mine .

And no one – not even my father – gets to break her.