Chapter 94
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Isla Verde Shores | Main House
The estate had shifted into a different rhythm. Morning’s bustle had given way to something slower, quieter, as though the entire house understood it was holding its breath. Staff moved with precision, not haste. The air itself felt expectant, charged with the weight of what was about to begin.
Beyond the windows, the sea pressed against the shore in restless cadence, as if echoing the pulse beneath it all. Guests had not yet gathered, but their arrival could almost be felt, like the hum of footsteps just beyond the horizon.
Every corridor carried the same suspended stillness. It wasn’t calm — calm belonged to ordinary days. This was anticipation, taut and waiting, the kind of silence that could turn fragile at the slightest disturbance.
It was the stillness before vows, before the world was allowed to witness. And beneath that stillness, just faint enough to question, lived the suggestion of something else — the kind of silence that could shatter at the slightest misstep.
Isla Verde Shores | The Grooms’ Suite
The suite was quiet except for the scratch of pen against parchment. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, laying long patterns across the table where Lucian and Eli sat side by side, each bent over the same task but in entirely different ways.
Lucian’s script was deliberate — each word precise, measured, as though he were drafting a treaty rather than a vow. He paused often, gaze narrowing, weighing the balance of one word against another until it fit precisely into place. His parchment held little, but every line was iron-bound in meaning.
Eli, by contrast, had surrounded himself with crumpled sheets. His draft paper was covered in scratched-out phrases, doodles in the margins, and aborted starts that looked more like song lyrics than vows. At one point, he’d written “Kristina, you’re not that scary” only to cross it out so hard the page nearly tore.
Ash tilted his head, watching with mild disdain. “That’s not a vow. That’s a cry for help.”
Vex lounged on the sofa arm, grinning widely. “Nah, it’s performance art. I’d frame the draft just to watch her reaction.”
Eli smirked, tossing the ruined sheet toward the wastebasket and missing. “That one was for you two clowns. This—” he tapped the fresh parchment before him, his handwriting surprisingly clean and steady now, “—is for her.”
Sebastian, standing just behind them, allowed the faintest smile. He said nothing, but the quiet approval in his eyes was explicit.
Eli leaned back, flexing his hand. “Done. Finally. And without marble.” He cut a look toward Lucian, still poised over his vows. “You sure you don’t want me to proofread yours? I could add a joke or two.”
Lucian didn’t glance up. “No.”
“See, that’s the problem,” Eli said, mock-sighing. “No sense of balance. You bring the intensity, I bring the charm. Yin, yang. It’s teamwork.”
At last, Lucian set his pen down, folding his parchment once and sliding it into its case. Only then did he meet Eli’s eyes. “Charm fades. What matters endures.”
Eli blinked — caught off guard for half a second before a crooked grin took over. “Damn it, Lucian. You’re gonna make me look bad.”
Ash muttered, “That ship sailed years ago.”
Vex chuckled, shaking his head. “Still funny watching you try to keep up.”
But the banter only softened the air. Between the clean parchment, the crossed-out drafts, and the quiet weight of words chosen, the room held something more than nerves. It was steadiness, fire, and the proof of what they were about to vow.
Isla Verde Shores | The Bride’s Suite
Kristina sat at the small writing desk near the window, the light falling across her shoulders as the sea shifted just beyond the glass. Before her lay the same tools she had chosen for them — parchment, ribbon, the pen made for her; she touched it with careful fingers, as though reminding herself it was real.
Her vows began slowly, one word at a time. She wrote, then paused, her gaze drifting toward the horizon as though she were searching there for the right shape of a promise. Unlike Lucian’s precision or Eli’s restless drafting, hers carried no hesitation once the words came. It was as if the vows had lived inside her for years, only waiting for this moment to be set free.
Signora Elena sat quietly in the corner, her hands folded on her lap. She did not intrude, but her eyes followed every line Kristina set to the page. When Kristina’s hand trembled briefly, the woman murmured something low in her native tongue — steadying, like an anchor.
Kristina breathed, nodded once, and wrote on.
When she finally set her pen down, she read the vow again. Not as Black Harrow. Not as Raven. Not even as the girl who had once been Kristina Alonzo. She read it as herself — all of herself. And for the first time, it felt whole.
The parchment was folded, ribbon tied, placed gently inside the waiting box. She exhaled, a quiet release, and looked up.
“It’s done,” Kristina whispered.
Signora Elena smiled — a slight, knowing curve. “Then so are you.”
Late Afternoon
The knock came, soft but final. One of the coordinator’s staff leaned in just far enough to speak.
“It’s time. Ten minutes.”
Ash stood immediately, brushing at his jacket as though he’d been waiting for this exact cue. Vex stretched like a cat, grin already tugging at his mouth, while Sebastian shut the folio in his hands with an almost ceremonial sound.
Lucian adjusted his cuffs, movements precise, though the line of his jaw betrayed tension. Eli rolled his shoulders, grinning a little too broadly, as though the stretch of his mouth could disguise the energy coiled beneath his skin. Both men rose without a word.
Then Lucian spoke, quiet but firm. “Give us a moment.”
Ash arched a brow, but didn’t argue. Vex clapped Eli once on the shoulder in passing. Sebastian lingered just a beat, his gaze flicking between the two men, before he nodded and guided the others out. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room in a silence that felt suddenly larger.
Eli exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So… this is it.” He tried for lightness, but his voice carried a weight he couldn’t disguise. “If one of us faints, it better be you. I’ve got the charm to play it off.”
Lucian gave him a sidelong look, dry as ever. “You’re not charming. You’re reckless.”
“Reckless works,” Eli countered, smirking — though it faded just enough to let the truth in. “You nervous?”
Lucian’s answer came slower. “Not about marrying her. Or you.” His eyes lowered briefly, then lifted again, steady. “Only about being enough. Every day. For both of you.”
Eli stilled, the grin fading fully now. He stepped closer, tapping his knuckles lightly against Lucian’s arm. “You don’t have to be enough, Lucian. You already are. And when you forget, I’ll remind you. That’s the deal.”
Lucian’s gaze held his, unreadable for a breath, then softened almost imperceptibly. “And when you forget, I’ll do the same.”
For a moment, the two men stood there — not rivals, not even opposites, but aligned, bound by the same vow before it was ever spoken aloud.
Then Eli let out a breath and grinned again, lighter this time. “Alright then. Let’s go prove everybody wrong.”
Lucian’s mouth curved faintly, the barest edge of a smile. “Or right.”
The silence settled once more, not heavy now, but steady. And when the knock returned — the reminder that ten minutes had nearly passed — both men were ready to answer it.
Another knock, soft and deliberate, echoed against the doorframe. The coordinator’s voice slipped in, measured.
“We’re about to start in ten minutes.”
Kristina rose slowly, letting her fingers trail along the edges of the desk where her vows lay folded. The parchment seemed impossibly small in the vastness of the room, yet within it lay everything she longed to express.
She moved to the mirror, eyes meeting her own reflection. The woman staring back was calm, poised, yet there was a current of energy beneath the surface, the kind that only comes when every part of you knows what is about to happen. She adjusted the folds of her dress, smoothed a lock of hair, and took a breath that tasted of salt and sunlight and quiet certainty.
Signora Elena stepped forward, her presence steady, a soft anchor in the storm of anticipation. She placed a gentle hand on Kristina’s shoulder.
“How are you feeling, cara mia?”
Kristina’s gaze did not leave the mirror. “Ready,” she said simply, her voice low, almost reverent. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but it did not break the gravity of the moment. “More than I ever thought I could be.”
The older woman’s eyes softened, a small, approving curve to her lips. “Then it is enough. All of it. You are enough.”
Kristina exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as though shedding years of tension in that single breath. She straightened, touched the ribbon on the folded vow one last time, and turned toward the door, every step measured yet light. The path ahead waited, and she would meet it head-on.
Isla Verde Shores | Private Ceremony Grounds
When the call finally came, the waiting air shifted. Doors opened along the main house, and the guests were guided down the lantern-lit path that led toward the shoreline. For hours, the ceremony grounds had been spoken of but unseen, a space forbidden even to family. Now, as the arches came into view — white lilies bound with black roses, glass lanterns catching the soft fall of sunlight — the murmur of voices faltered into reverent silence.
The place looked less like a stage and more like something carved into being: sacred, deliberate, untouched. The sea lay just beyond, its horizon a pale burnish of gold and blue, as though the day itself was bowing to what was about to begin.
Harold Sinclair walked at the head of the family, cane steady, gaze sharper than the years allowed. He slowed as the arches rose before him, his breath drawing deep. There was no comment, no theatrical display of approval — only the slightest incline of his head, the kind of acknowledgement that meant far more than words. Those close enough to notice saw his hand rest against the top of his cane a little firmer, as if anchoring himself to the moment.
A few steps behind, Maxim Thorne followed in silence. His face held its usual steel, but when the lantern light caught the sharp line of his profile, there was something unguarded in his eyes. He said nothing, though his gaze lingered longer than most — on the arches, on the sea, on the chairs waiting in precise symmetry. It was not wonder he carried, but recognition: that someone had built a place worthy of permanence, not performance.
The other guests spilled in slowly, their voices kept low, as if afraid to fracture what had been unveiled. The grounds were no longer just a venue; they had become a focal point. They had become something heavier — a promise turned tangible, and for those who would soon stand at the altar, unescapable.
When they reached the platform, Lucian and Eli did not take their positions immediately. Instead, they turned first to the front row, where Harold Sinclair sat in measured stillness, his cane balanced across his lap. For a heartbeat, neither man moved — then both inclined their heads in a slow, deliberate bow.
Harold’s eyes, calm and steady, did not soften, but the smallest tilt of his chin acknowledged the gesture. Permission. Acceptance, in the only language he ever used.
Then Lucian and Eli turned, together, to where Maxim Thorne sat opposite him. Unlike Harold, Maxim did not wait in silence. His gaze met theirs without hesitation, the steel in his eyes giving way to something weightier, something that reached deeper than pride. He inclined his head once, sharply, but his hand pressed briefly to his chest before lowering again — a soldier’s vow, returned.
Only then did Lucian and Eli step onto the platform. They did not stand side by side, but opposite each other, leaving the center space open — a space heavy with anticipation, charged with the weight of all that had come before, and all that was about to begin. Every movement, every breath seemed amplified, as if the world itself had slowed to witness this single, sacred moment.
The piano softened, notes trembling in the warm evening air, then shifted, a new phrase unfurling like a held breath released—the cue.
Every guest turned instinctively, drawn to the unfolding energy. The aisle, bathed in the fading gold of the sun, stretched before them, a corridor of expectation. The air thickened, charged, as if even the sea itself had paused, waiting.
And then — just beyond the sealed archway — a ripple of movement. A shimmer of presence. The first sign of Kristina’s entrance, and the world seemed to tilt, ready to catch its breath.
Every heartbeat waits for what comes next.
—To be continued.
