The wedding was small.
Not the kind of spectacle the world expected from Damien Moreau. No hundreds of guests. No cameras. No champagne fountains or ice sculptures or any of the things that announced power to the world.
Just them.
Just their closest friends.
Just the people who had watched them destroy each other and somehow still believed they could build something beautiful.
---
They chose Verona.
Not the penthouse. Not the city where the empire lived. The city they had built together. The city that belonged to them.
The old town square was transformed. Flowers everywhere. White roses and pale pink peonies, the same colors as the garden on the roof. The fountain was running. The trees were strung with lights. The cobblestones had been swept clean.
Christabel's sister had planned most of it. Sarah had helped. Marco had handled security, grumbling the whole time about how he was a lieutenant, not a wedding planner.
But he had smiled when he saw the bride.
Everyone smiled when they saw the bride.
---
Christabel wore white.
Not the white of innocence. The white of choice. The white of a woman who had killed and been killed and risen from the ashes of her own destruction.
The dress was simple. Long sleeves. High neck. A train that swept behind her like a river of light. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in waves. Her face was bare of makeup except for her lips, which were the color of wine.
She carried no bouquet.
Instead, she carried a single white rose.
The same kind that grew in the garden on the roof. The garden he had built for her. The garden where she had first realized she was loved.
---
Damien waited at the altar.
Not an altar, really. Just the space beneath the largest tree, where they had sat together on so many afternoons, dreaming about the future.
He wore black. A simple suit. No tie. His hair was combed back. His hands were steady.
But his heart was racing.
He had faced armies. Assassins. Men who wanted him dead. He had never been afraid.
But watching her walk toward him—down the aisle of cobblestones, between rows of white chairs, past the people who had become their family—he was terrified.
Not of her.
Of losing her.
Of waking up one day and realizing that this was all a dream.
---
She reached him.
Took his hands.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I'm nervous."
"You've never been nervous."
"I've never done this before."
She smiled.
The real one.
"Neither have I."
---
The officiant was a woman. Older. Gray hair. Kind eyes. She had married Christabel's parents, divorced them, married them again, and buried them both.
She knew about love.
She knew about loss.
She knew about the kind of love that survived the impossible.
"We are gathered here today," she said, "not to witness a wedding. But to witness a choice. A choice that two people have made, every day, for years. To love each other. To fight for each other. To never give up."
She looked at Damien.
"Damien. You have loved Christabel through darkness. Through destruction. Through the kind of pain that would have broken lesser men."
"I have."
"You have killed for her."
"I have."
"You have died for her."
"Every day."
"Then tell her. In your own words. Why you want to marry her."
---
Damien looked at Christabel.
Her eyes were wet.
His hands were steady.
"I want to marry you," he said, "because you're the only person who has ever looked at me and seen someone worth saving."
"Damien—"
"Let me finish." He took a breath. "I want to marry you because you taught me that love isn't about possession. It's about choice. Every day, you choose me. And every day, I choose you."
"You chose me first."
"I took you first." He touched her face. "There's a difference. I took you because I was afraid. I chose you because I was brave."
"And now?"
"Now I'm asking you to choose me. Not because you have to. Because you want to."
---
She was crying now.
Tears streaming down her face.
"Your turn," the officiant said.
Christabel laughed.
Wiped her eyes.
"I want to marry you," she said, "because you're the first person who ever made me feel safe."
"I made you feel safe?"
"Not safe from the world. Safe to be myself." She touched his chest. "You looked at my darkness and didn't run. You looked at my fear and didn't judge. You looked at my scars and kissed every single one."
"I remember."
"I want to marry you because you built me a garden when I didn't know how to grow. Because you bought me a city when I didn't know how to dream. Because you loved me when I didn't know how to love myself."
"I've always loved you."
"I know." She smiled. "That's why I'm here."
---
The officiant nodded.
"The rings."
Marco stepped forward.
Held out a small box.
Inside were two rings. Simple. Gold. No diamonds. No stones.
Damien took the first ring.
Held it between his fingers.
"Christabel Vance," he said. "I give you this ring as a promise. A promise that I will never stop choosing you. A promise that I will never stop fighting for you. A promise that I will love you until the last star burns out and the last breath leaves my body."
He slipped the ring onto her finger.
She was crying again.
"Your turn," the officiant said.
Christabel took the second ring.
Held it between her fingers.
"Damien Moreau," she said. "I give you this ring as a promise. A promise that I will never stop coming home to you. A promise that I will never stop believing in you. A promise that I will love you through every darkness, every destruction, every impossible thing that tries to tear us apart."
She slipped the ring onto his finger.
He kissed her hand.
---
"By the power vested in me," the officiant said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
She paused.
"You may kiss the bride."
Damien pulled Christabel into his arms.
Kissed her.
Not gently.
The way she remembered.
She kissed him back the same way.
And when they finally pulled apart, the crowd was cheering.
---
The reception was in the square.
Long tables. White tablecloths. Candles flickering in the evening light.
Food and wine and laughter.
Marco gave a speech.
"I've known Damien for fifteen years," he said. "I've watched him build an empire. I've watched him destroy his enemies. I've watched him do things that would make most men sick."
He paused.
"But I've never watched him be happy. Until her."
He raised his glass.
"To Christabel. The woman who tamed the monster."
"To Christabel," the crowd echoed.
Christabel stood.
Raised her glass.
"I didn't tame him," she said. "I unleashed him."
She looked at Damien.
"To the man who taught me that love isn't about being safe. It's about being brave."
"To Damien," the crowd echoed.
Damien stood.
Raised his glass.
"To the woman who taught me that love isn't about control. It's about trust."
"To Christabel."
They drank.
And the night went on.
---
They danced.
Not a choreographed dance. Not a performance.
Just them. Holding each other. Moving slowly to music only they could hear.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"I love you so much it terrifies me."
"Good." He kissed her forehead. "It should."
"The baby is kicking."
"She wants to dance."
"She's already dancing."
They laughed.
And the city sparkled around them.
---
Later, much later, they sat on the bench beneath the tree.
The same bench where they had sat so many times before.
The guests had gone home. The square was empty. The candles had burned down to nothing.
"Today was perfect," she said.
"Today was ours."
"It's going to be hard."
"What?"
"Being married. Being parents. Being us."
"I know."
"Are you scared?"
He looked at her.
"Terrified."
"Good." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Me too."
---
They stayed in the square until the sun came up.
Pink and gold over the city they had built together.
"We should go home," she said.
"We are home."
She looked at him.
Her eyes were dark and deep and full of something that looked like forever.
"Yes," she said. We are