POV Emilia
Planning a wedding while pregnant and grieving turns out to be like juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle—theoretically possible, but probably inadvisable for anyone who values their sanity.
“This is insane,” I tell my reflection in the bridal suite mirror. “We’re actually doing this.”
The dress is a fucking masterpiece—custom Vera Wang that somehow makes me look like a glowing goddess instead of a slightly nauseous woman who’s been surviving on crackers and ginger ale for weeks.
The bump isn’t showing yet, but knowing it’s there makes everything feel surreal.
“Stop overthinking,” Melanie orders, appearing behind me with enough bobby pins to construct a small building. “You look gorgeous. Adrian is going to lose his shit when he sees you.”
“He’s seen me throw up in his bathroom. Pretty sure the mystique is gone.”
“Different kind of losing his shit, babe.”
Mel snaps the last pin, kisses my cheek, and we move. The elevator hums, the city opens, a car appears like it was always waiting. By the time we reach Hart Industries, my pulse has settled into something like resolve.
The venue is Hart Industries’ rooftop garden—because of course Dad would’ve wanted his merger fantasies realized in his own backyard, even posthumously. It’s been transformed into something that looks like a magazine spread fucked a fairy tale: white roses everywhere, string lights, and enough champagne to float a small yacht.
Two hundred guests who are probably calculating the cost per head while pretending to care about our romantic journey. Corporate executives, family friends, people who knew Dad better than I did but feel obligated to celebrate his daughter’s wedding.
“Ready?” Mel asks, adjusting my veil with the efficiency of someone who’s watched too many wedding shows.
“No. Absolutely not. This is terrifying.”
“Good. If you weren’t terrified, I’d be worried you’d lost your survival instincts.”
The music starts—some classical thing Adrian picked because he has opinions about wedding processionals—and suddenly we’re walking down an aisle lined with people who are definitely judging everything from my dress to my choice of groom to the speed of this entire relationship.
But then I see Adrian at the altar, and everything else becomes background noise.
He’s wearing a tux that probably costs more than graduate school, but what stops my heart is his expression.
He looks like he’s seeing something miraculous, like I’m walking toward him wearing actual starlight instead of overpriced fabric.
The ceremony is a blur of traditional vows with personal additions that make several people cry and probably make the corporate executives uncomfortable.
Adrian promises to support my career ambitions and never mansplain quarterly projections to me. I promise to only threaten his life during morning sickness and to try not to hostile-takeover his company out of boredom.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says, and Adrian doesn’t wait for permission.
The kiss is soft, careful, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he’s too enthusiastic. But there’s something in it that feels like coming home after the longest, most complicated journey of my life.
We break on a breath. An emcee shepherds us toward the doors, lights brighten, and the crowd sweeps in around us, all perfume and congratulations.
The reception is exactly the kind of elegant chaos you’d expect when you combine Hart Industries money with Marlowe family expectations. The food is incredible, the champagne is flowing, and everyone’s pretending this isn’t the weirdest corporate merger disguised as a love story in Manhattan history.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announces, “please welcome the maid of honor, Melanie.”
Mel takes the microphone like she’s about to deliver a TED talk on the strategic importance of best friendship, and suddenly I’m terrified of what she might say to this room full of people who think they know our story.
“I’ve known Emilia since college,” she begins, “when she was a control freak with a color-coded planner and I was a chaos demon with commitment issues. Somehow, we became best friends, probably because we recognized fellow disasters hiding behind successful exteriors.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, and I relax slightly.
“Emilia has always been the smartest person in every room, which is both inspiring and deeply annoying. She can negotiate million-dollar deals before lunch and still remember your birthday. She can handle corporate crises with surgical precision and cry during dog food commercials.”
“True,” I call out, because wine-less wedding receptions make you dangerously honest.
“But watching her with Adrian has been something else entirely,” Mel continues, her voice getting softer. “I’ve seen Em handle every challenge life could throw at her—manipulative fathers, corporate sabotage, fake engagements that turned embarrassingly real. But I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at Adrian.”
My throat gets tight because she’s not wrong.
“Adrian, you somehow managed to crack the code of the most strategically brilliant woman I know. You made her want things she didn’t know she could want. Partnership instead of conquest. Vulnerability instead of armor. Love instead of leverage.”
Someone behind me sniffles. Possibly Richard Marlowe, which would be hilarious.
“And Em, you found someone who matches your intensity without trying to control it. Someone who can handle your ambition and your terrible jokes and your tendency to reorganize other people’s lives for their own good.”
“Hey,” I protest, but I’m laughing.
“So here’s to Emilia and Adrian,” Mel raises her glass, “who proved that sometimes the best business deals are the ones that have absolutely nothing to do with business. May your merger be profitable, your hostile takeovers be limited to board games, and your joint ventures result in tiny humans who inherit the best of both your terrifying competencies.”
The crowd erupts in applause and laughter, and I’m definitely crying now, which is going to ruin my makeup but I don’t care.
Adrian squeezes my hand under the table. “Not bad for corporate theater disguised as romance.”
“Shut up and dance with me, husband.”
“Yes, ma’am, wife.”
We take the dance floor, and as Adrian spins me around surrounded by flowers and fairy lights and people who are genuinely happy for us, I realize something:
This fairytale bullshit actually worked.
We fake-engaged our way into real love, survived media scandals and family manipulation and corporate politics, and somehow ended up here—married, pregnant, dancing in front of everyone who matters while planning a future that’s equal parts terrifying and perfect.
Not bad for a business arrangement that got completely out of hand.
Not bad at all.