At this moment, she should be opening the gift I sent to her suite. A memory in brushstrokes. A painting, commissioned by William Bloom, his version of the photo we took the night we told the truth. The night I realized she wasn’t a fling, a game, or a phase. She was the one I’d been waiting for all my life.
My note I sent with her gift is short. Just the truth.
This is the moment I knew. Not only that I loved you—but that I always would.
–Your husband
Nate claps me on the back. “You good, mate?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “I’m good.”
But what I don’t say—what I can’t say with them watching—is that I’ve never been more undone in my life. But in the best way.
Someone knocks. This time, it’s the wedding coordinator. “It’s time.”
The guys fall quiet. Jackets are straightened. Ties adjusted one last time. I check my watch and realize I haven’t looked at the time all day. Not once.
We take the back corridor through the hotel, a quiet hallway that spills out into the courtyard through a set of arched French doors. I step outside and the evening air wraps around me—cool, sweet, kissed by the scent of flowers.
Golden light bathes the courtyard, candles flickering along the aisle. Every inch of this place looks like her—designed with intention, layered in thoughtfulness, more poetry than decor.
And as we take our places at the front, the first notes rise on the air. The music begins softly—strings lifting the air with “Can’t Help Falling In Love,” the same song I had played in Charleston when I proposed to her.
Now I stand at the front of the aisle in this garden—the garden where we shared our first kiss—and I feel the weight of every step it took to get here. Every scar. Every second chance.
The groomsmen move into place—Jack Henry smooths his lapel one last time. Nate grins wide. Kye nods once, steady. And Elias claps me on the shoulder before stepping into line beside me.
The string quartet swells, and the bridesmaids begin their walk.
Laurelyn appears first, graceful and glowing, her dress catching the last of the sun.
Then Leilani, fierce and stunning, chin high.
Sefina follows, soft elegance with a smile.
And Violet—Magnolia’s maid of honor—doesn’t look at me at all. Her eyes find Elias instead. A long, quiet glance. No smile. No wink. Only heat and history and something that hasn’t happened yet.
Then the music shifts and softens, and the crowd stills.
My heart does the opposite.
She steps into view. My sweet Magnolia. Hair down the way I love it. Chestnut waves falling over her shoulders beneath a sheer veil floating like air around her.
She doesn’t wear a dress that demands attention. It’s elegant, simple, and perfect. And I swear she’s glowing. Each step she takes undoes something in me. Unravels every scar, every detour, every version of my life before her.
My lungs stall. My hands curl. My pulse loses the rhythm it’s always known. And when our eyes meet, I know. This is what forever looks like.
The moment locks into place, sacred.
Not loud. Not bright. Reverent.
The world stills as Magnolia’s hand finds mine—warm and steady. The string quartet’s last note hovers in the air and fades, swallowed by breathless silence.
She stands before me, veil fluttering in the breeze. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, everything around us disappears. I don’t see the crowd. I don’t hear the soft sniffles or feel the weight of a hundred gazes.
It’s only the two of us.
I wonder if she understands what I see when I look at her. Not just the beauty that everyone else sees—though, God, that’s staggering. I mean the weight of what she’s carried.
