[POV Ariel]
* Three years later *
The ocean shimmered like molten silver beneath a sky awash in soft lilacs and fading peach, the kind of twilight you want to bottle and keep forever.
A warm breeze teased at the delicate draping of silk and ivy wrapped around the wooden arch, and fairy lights floated above the vineyard like a thousand small stars that had come down from the sky to bless this moment.
And at the end of the aisle, there he stood.
Sloane. No longer the cold, guarded man I had once called a stranger. No longer the reluctant heir dragged back into a legacy he hadn’t asked for.
He looked calm, sure, heartbreakingly handsome in a slate-gray suit and white open collar, a single rose at his lapel. His eyes—still that familiar glacier blue, still capable of undoing me in a heartbeat—were fixed on mine, wide open and full of the kind of love I once believed I’d never be allowed to have.
I walked slowly. Not out of hesitation—but reverence. This wasn’t the aisle I’d walked down nearly three years ago under the weight of obligation and buried fury. This was a path built by every choice we made after.
Every fight. Every scar.
Every soft moment stitched in silence and every truth that had taken everything in us to say aloud.
Charlie escorted me halfway, the same grin on his face he wore the first time he helped me lie to the world about who I was. But today, there were no lies.
Today, I was entirely myself.
His hand squeezed mine, then he leaned close to whisper, “You did it. You both did.”
And then he let go.
I met Sloane’s hand at the altar. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His fingers closed over mine like they belonged there—like they always had.
We kept the ceremony small.
No press, no obligations. Just the people who had weathered the storm with us: Charlie, of course, and the handful of close staff who had become family, a few trusted allies from both Newman and Wayne sides, and—shockingly, tenderly—my parents.
My father still stood a little stiff, and my mother still chose pearls over apologies, but for the first time, I saw pride in their eyes that wasn’t manufactured or strategic.
It was real. Earned.
The officiant spoke, but it was our vows that told the story.
Sloane went first, his voice low, a little hoarse, his hands warm in mine.
“When we met, everything was strategy. Silence. Power. Control. I didn’t believe in love, not the kind that asks you to lay down your armor. But you—Ariel, Ari, my wife, my match—you broke every rule I had without even trying. You taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness. That strength is loving someone enough to stay, even when it’s easier to walk away. I don’t vow to protect you because I’m afraid to lose you—I vow to walk beside you, hand in hand, as your equal. Always.”
I swallowed hard. My turn.
“We didn’t fall in love the way most people do. We collided. We collided with pain, with history, with the weight of names we didn’t ask to carry. But from that wreckage, something real grew. You gave me space when I needed it, truth when I demanded it, and love when I didn’t believe I deserved it. Today, I choose you—not out of obligation, but because even if I met you all over again with no contract and no legacy, I would still find my way back to this moment.”
There wasn’t a dry eye around us. When the officiant pronounced us husband and wife—again, but this time truly—I kissed him with everything I had, not to seal a deal, but to promise the future.
The reception was a quiet kind of wild joy. Laughter mingled with music under a canopy of stars and laughter. Long wooden tables were scattered with citrus blossoms and flickering candles, bottles of aged wine resting beside stacks of handmade thank-you notes.
Charlie toasted us with a speech that included both a business metaphor and a dirty joke about how long it had taken us to finally sleep together.
Even my father managed a short, faltering speech that ended with the words, “You’ve built something I never could’ve imagined, Ariel. I’m proud of you.”
And I believed him.
As the crowd began to thin and the air took on that late-night hush of intimacy, I slipped my hand into Sloane’s and led him down to the edge of the vineyard, away from the noise, beneath a thousand stars.
He followed, curious. “What’s this?”
“I have something to tell you.”
His brow furrowed, his protective instincts still wired after everything we’d survived.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
I stopped, took his hands, and pressed them to my stomach. “I’m pregnant.”
The world stopped moving for just a second. Then his eyes—those impossible, stormy eyes—widened, and his breath caught.
“You’re…?”
“Yes.” I nodded, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep and awed. “You’re going to be a father.”
He didn’t speak, just pulled me into his arms and buried his face in my neck. His breath was shaky, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped my waist like he was anchoring himself to the moment.
When he finally pulled back, he looked at me with something new—wonder, maybe.
Or peace.
“You’re my whole world,” he whispered. “You and this baby. That’s all I’ll ever need.”