Page 13 of High Stakes (The Morrison Brothers #2)

Two years later

I've never been so nervous in my life. My heart is pounding so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it, even over the string quartet playing Pachelbel's Canon. My hands tremble slightly as I adjust the bouquet of white roses and blue hydrangeas.

"Ready, sweetheart?" my father asks, his eyes misty behind his glasses. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo, so proud.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Dad pats my hand where it rests in the crook of his arm, the gesture so familiar from childhood: his way of saying everything will be alright.

"He's a good man," Dad says quietly. "Different than what your mother and I imagined for you, but a good man."

"The best," I manage to whisper.

The wedding coordinator signals us, and the music changes. This is it. The moment I've both dreamed about and somehow never quite believed would happen.

The doors open, and suddenly all eyes are on me.

The ballroom of the historic Plaza Hotel has been transformed into a winter wonderland—white flowers, crystal accents, thousands of twinkling lights creating the effect of stars.

It's breathtaking, elegant without being ostentatious, exactly what I wanted.

But I barely register any of it. Because there, at the end of the aisle, is Michael.

He stands tall and impossibly handsome in his custom tuxedo, watching me with an expression of such naked adoration that my eyes immediately fill with tears.

This brilliant, complex, sometimes difficult man is about to become my husband.

The thought is simultaneously the most natural and most extraordinary realization of my life.

Dad and I begin our walk, my couture gown, which yes, cost more than my parents' house, a fact my mother has mentioned approximately seventeen times, flowing behind me in a cascade of Italian silk and handmade lace.

Michael insisted on paying for it, overriding my protests with a simple "Please let me give you this." How could I say no when he looked at me like that?

As we move slowly down the aisle, I allow myself to really look at our guests. Everyone who matters to us is here, witnessing this moment.

Ethan sits in the front row, looking almost unrecognizable in a suit instead of his usual flannel and jeans.

The reserved blacksmith has become a surprising friend over the past two years, a steady presence at family gatherings.

His girlfriend sits beside him, her hand in his, their connection obvious even from a distance.

Next to them is David, who is now fully recovered. His girlfriend catches my eye and gives me an encouraging thumbs-up that makes me smile through my tears.

Jack, the baby of the Morrison family, grins broadly as I pass. The rodeo star cleaned up nicely for the occasion, though his cowboy boots peek out beneath his tuxedo pants. His girlfriend looks stunning despite their travel fatigue.

The Morrison brothers. My new family. Each so different, yet united by their fierce loyalty and the unmistakable Morrison determination.

My gaze shifts to my side of the aisle—college friends, my cousins, colleagues who've become friends.

My mother in the front row, already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

The journey to this moment hasn't always been smooth.

Explaining to my academic parents why I was marrying my former boss required several lengthy conversations about power dynamics and genuine connection, but they've come to love Michael almost as much as I do.

Almost.

And then there are our colleagues. Vanessa, who became a true friend, sits with her husband. Thomas, who took over my position and exceeds even Michael's exacting standards. Various executives, board members, the people who form the professional family we've built.

But all these observations are peripheral, background details. Because with each step, Michael grows clearer, more defined, more real. And everything else fades away.

Finally, we reach the altar. My father kisses my cheek and places my hand in Michael's—the traditional gesture of giving away the bride that I insisted on keeping. Some traditions just feel right.

Michael's fingers are warm around mine. Steady. Sure.

"Hi," he whispers, just for me.

"Hi," I whisper back.

And then, to my horror, I burst into tears. Not delicate, photogenic tears that leave mascara intact, but real, overwhelming emotion that I can't contain.

Without missing a beat, Michael reaches into his pocket and produces a handkerchief, gently dabbing beneath my eyes.

"You'll never forgive me if I let you ruin that makeup," he murmurs, his voice tender and teasing. "I've been reliably informed it took three hours and cost more than my first car."

I laugh through my tears, loving him so much in that moment I can hardly bear it. This is Michael—always prepared, always thinking ahead, always taking care of me even in the smallest ways.

"I love you," I mouth silently.

"I love you more," he mouths back, a private exchange in this most public of moments.

The officiant begins the ceremony, but I'm barely listening to the formal words. I'm lost in Michael's eyes, in the journey that brought us here.

Two years of building a life together. My master's degree completed with Michael quizzing me on communication theory at midnight.

His company continuing to thrive, though he now works slightly more reasonable hours.

Holidays with his brothers, weekends with my parents, creating new traditions while honoring old ones.

Arguments that taught us how to fight fair and make up properly.

Discoveries about each other that only time can reveal.

And through it all, that connection that began on a Caribbean island, that recognition of finding your perfect counterbalance, your ideal partner, your home.

"The rings, please," the officiant says, bringing me back to the present.

Ethan steps forward as Michael's best man, handing over the platinum bands we chose together. Simple, elegant, engraved inside with coordinates. Not of New York or the Caribbean, but of the exact spot where we first kissed on that private beach. Our secret.

Michael takes my hand again, sliding the ring onto my finger as he recites his vows.

"Elena, when you came into my life, I was a man who measured success in numbers—market share, profit margins, assets.

You taught me that the most valuable things can't be quantified.

Your kindness, your intelligence, your unwavering support, these have transformed me in ways I never thought possible. "

He pauses, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. "I promise to love you completely, to support your dreams as you've supported mine, to be your partner in all things, and to never forget that finding you was the best thing that ever happened to me."

Tears threaten again, but I manage to hold them back as I begin my own vows, my voice growing stronger with each word.

"Michael, you once told me that everything in your life had been leading you to me. I feel the same way about you. Every choice, every path brought me exactly where I needed to be, by your side. You challenge me, you inspire me, you make me laugh even when I want to be angry."

I smile up at him, remembering all the moments that led us here.

"I promise to be your equal partner, your greatest supporter, your most honest critic when you need one, and your safe harbor always.

I promise to love you for exactly who you are, both the brilliant CEO and the man who secretly reads romance novels when he can't sleep. "

A ripple of laughter passes through the guests at this revelation, and Michael shakes his head ruefully, his eyes never leaving mine.

"By the power vested in me," the officiant continues, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Michael's hands frame my face with infinite tenderness as he leans down to kiss me. The moment his lips touch mine, applause erupts around us, but I barely hear it. In this kiss is every promise we've made, every obstacle we've overcome, every joy we've shared.

When we finally separate, Michael keeps hold of my hand as we turn to face our guests.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the officiant announces, "I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Morrison!"

As we walk back down the aisle together, I catch glimpses of happy faces. My mother openly crying now, Ethan with a rare full smile, Vanessa giving us a subtle thumbs-up.

Outside the ballroom doors, before we must rejoin our guests for the reception, Michael pulls me into a quiet alcove for one private moment.

"Mrs. Morrison," he says, testing the name.

"That's Dr. Morrison-Carter professionally," I remind him with a smile, thinking of the doctoral program I've just been accepted to. "But Mrs. Morrison works just fine for today."

He laughs, pulling me closer. "Have I told you yet how breathtakingly beautiful you are? Because I've been thinking it since the moment those doors opened."

"You might have mentioned it during the fitting, and the rehearsal, and this morning when you sent flowers to my room," I tease.

"Well, it bears repeating." His expression grows more serious. "Are you happy, Elena? Really happy?"

"Like never before," I assure him. "Are you?"

"More than I ever thought possible," he says simply. "More than I believed I deserved."

Before I can respond, there's a discreet knock at the door.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morrison?" the wedding coordinator calls. "The photographer is ready for you, and then we'll need to prepare for your entrance to the reception."

Michael sighs, resting his forehead against mine. "Duty calls. Are you ready to face the cameras? I'm told there's quite a media presence outside."

I think about the headlines that will inevitably follow—TECH BILLIONAIRE WEDS FORMER ASSISTANT or some variation thereof. How our story will be simplified, sensationalized, scrutinized.

And I find I don't care at all.

"Let them take their pictures," I say, straightening his bow tie. "They can write whatever they want. We know the truth."

The truth is both simpler and more complex than any headline could capture. The truth is that I fell in love with a difficult, brilliant, tender-hearted man who challenges me every day to be my best self. The truth is that he fell in love with a woman who sees him clearly and loves him completely.

The truth is that sometimes, despite all odds and complications, people find exactly where they belong.

"Ready, Mrs. Morrison?" Michael asks, offering me his arm.

I take it, the perfect counterbalance to my own strength. "Ready, Mr. Morrison."

Together, hand in hand, we step forward to greet our future.

Thank you for reading it!