Chapter 413 I do
Mia’s POV
“Scarlett,” I hissed.
But she was grinning. That wicked grin that meant she was enjoying herself far too much.
The string quartet had shifted into something more structured. Not the ceremony music yet. But getting close. That particular transition from background noise to actual performance.
People were settling into their seats. The murmur of conversation was fading. Being replaced by that expectant
hush.
Sophie was still standing. Her red dress catching every possible ray of afternoon light. She turned in a slow circle. Taking in the venue. The roses. The silk. The chandeliers hanging from trees like someone had decided gravity was optional.
“This is magnificent,” she announced to no one in particular. “Absolutely magnificent. Though I would have used more peonies. Roses are beautiful but predictable.”
“Nobody asked for your opinion on the florals,” Thomas said.
“That’s what makes it so valuable.”
Thomas opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Kyle’s hand came up. Touched Thomas’s shoulder. Just once. Brief.
“Don’t,” Kyle said quietly. “She’ll win.”
“I always win,” Sophie confirmed cheerfully.
Alexander had twisted around in his seat again. His eyes were enormous. Fixed on Sophie like she was some kind of exotic bird that had just landed in his vicinity.
41
‘Auntie Sophie is a princess.” he asked.
Sophie’s entire face transformed. “Yes I am! My sweetheart.”
Kyle was still standing beside Thomas. Not moving. His hands were in his pockets. His attention fixed somewhere over my head. On the altar maybe. Or just on nothing.
The suit did make him look better. The fabric was good quality. Dark charcoal. The kind of gray that looked black in certain light. His shirt was crisp. White. Perfect.
“Did you put on makeup?” I asked.
Kyle’s eyes finally found mine. Just for a second. Then away again.
“Yes,” he said.
“You’re wearing makeup.”
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“Stage makeup. Linda applied it this morning.”
“Linda did it well”
His mouth did something. Not quite a smile. “Dying men can’t wear makeup?”
“Rich dying men can wear whatever they want.”
“That’s the only benefit.”
The words hung between us. Heavy. Nobody moved to pick them up.
Scarlett cleared her throat. Loud. Obvious. “Well. This is getting morbid.”
“Death is morbid,” Kyle said. “There’s no way around it.”
“You could at least try to be less depressing at a wedding.”
“I’m wearing makeup. That’s my contribution to not being depressing.”
Sophie clapped her hands together. Once. Sharp. The sound cut through the conversation like a knife.
“Enough!” She pointed at all of us. Her finger moving in an arc. “No more death talk. No more sadness. We are at a wedding. A celebration of love and commitment and overpriced flowers.”
“Sophie—” Thomas started.
“No. I’m serious.” Her voice had shifted. Gone from playful to something harder. More certain. “Starting today- –right now—we’re going to celebrate. Every week. All of us together.”
“Celebrate what?” Morton asked.
“That Kyle is still alive.”
The silence that followed was enormous.
Kyle’s face went very still. “Sophie—”
“No arguments. Every Sunday. We meet. We have dinner. We drink wine. We toast to the fact that you survived another week.”
“That’s—” Kyle stopped. “That’s morbid.”
“Life is morbid. We’re making it fun.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” Sophie’s voice was firm. Final. “You’re dying. Fine. We can’t stop that. But we can celebrate every day you’re not dead yet. Every week you keep breathing. Every moment you’re still here with your children.”
“That’s not how group decisions work.” Thomas said.
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“It is when I’m making them.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that like it’s an insult.”
“It is an insult.”
“Then you’re using it wrong.”
Kyle’s hand came up again. Touched Thomas’s arm. “Let it go.”
“She’s being ridiculous.”
“She’s being Sophie. It’s the same thing.”
Sophie beamed. “See? Kyle understands.”
The string quartet had stopped. Complete silence now. Everyone was seated. The garden was full. Five hundred people arranged in neat rows. All facing forward.
Waiting.
A man in an expensive suit walked to the center of the altar. The officiant, presumably. He carried a small leather book. His hair was silver. His face kind.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. His voice carried across the garden without microphones. Trained. Professional. “Please rise for the bride.”
The rustling was immediate. Five hundred people standing in unison. Fabric rustling. Chairs scraping slightly on grass.
Sophie grabbed my hand. Pulled me up.
I stood. My legs felt wrong. Heavy.
The children stood too. Alexander on his toes. Trying to see.
And Kyle—
Kyle stood slowly. His hand braced against the back of the chair in front of him. Just for a second. Then he straightened. Shoulders back.
He looked steady. Present.
The makeup helped. Or maybe the suit. Or maybe Dr. Norbu’s herbs and meditation were actually working.
Or maybe Kyle was just very good at pretending.
The music changed. That’s when the bridal march started. Not the traditional one. Something modern. A string arrangement that sounded like it cost more than most people’s mortgages.
All heads turned.
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And there she was.
Grace Wellington.
She moved down the aisle with that particular grace that came from years of finishing school and deportment. classes. Her dress was ivory. Simple lines. No beading. No lace. Just pure silk that caught the light and held it.
Her hair was up. Elegant. A few strategic pieces framing her face.
And yes. Scarlett was right. She was showing.
Not dramatically. But enough. The dress was cut to accommodate. Empire waist. Flowing fabric.
Her hand rested on her father’s arm. He was tall. Silver–haired. His suit was probably custom.
But she wasn’t looking at him.
She was looking at the altar.
At Alexander Morton.
Morton’s baby brother.
He stood at the front. His hands clasped in front of him. His face—
His face was everything.
Open. Vulnerable. Like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed.
He was crying.
Not sobbing. Just tears. Running down his face while he watched his bride walk toward him.
And Grace—
Grace was crying too.
They hadn’t even reached each other yet and both of them were already crying.
“Oh God,” Scarlett whispered beside me. “I didn’t think I was going to cry at this wedding.”
She was already crying.
Sophie was crying too. Silent tears streaming down her face. Her hand squeezed mine. Hard.
Even Thomas looked affected.
Morton was stone–faced. But his hand had found Scarlett’s. Their fingers laced together.
Kyle was —
Kyle was looking at me.
His face was unreadable.
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I looked away first.
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Grace reached the altar. Her father kissed her cheek. Placed her hand in Alexander’s. Then stepped back.
The officiant smiled. “Dearly beloved—”
Alexander couldn’t wait. He pulled Grace close. Kissed her. Deep. Thorough. The kind of kiss that said mine.
The crowd laughed.
The officiant cleared his throat. “We haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
Alexander broke the kiss. But didn’t let go of Grace’s hands. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
“I can see that.”
Grace was laughing. “We can skip to that part if you want.”
More laughter from the crowd.
“Patience,” the officiant said. But he was smiling too. “We’ll get there.”
The ceremony began. The kind of wedding that had been performed a thousand times with a thousand couples.
But every couple thought theirs was different.
Every couple thought theirs was special.
Maybe they were all right.
The officiant was talking about love. About commitment. About building a life together. His voice carried across the garden. Steady. Sure.
I wasn’t really listening.
My attention kept drifting to Kyle as I can feel he’s still looking at me.
Even when I wasn’t looking at him, I could feel it. That particular weight. Like being watched.
I turned my head slightly. Met his eyes.
He didn’t look away.
We stood there.
His expression was complicated. I couldn’t tell anymore.
“Do you, Alexander Morton, take Grace Wellington to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Alexander’s voice rang out. Clear. Certain. “I do.”
“And do you, Grace Wellington, take Alexander Morton to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
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“Then by the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may—”
Alexander kissed her again before the officiant could finish.
The crowd erupted. Applause. Cheers. Someone whistled.
The string quartet launched into something triumphant. Probably Handel. Or one of those composers whose music always sounded like victory.
Grace and Alexander walked back down the aisle. Hand in hand. Both crying. Both laughing. Both looking at each other like they’d just discovered something miraculous.
