Chapter Thirty-Six-Cecilia
So here I am.
Back on the East Coast. Back in New Jersey. And living in a literal castle.
Okay—not technically a medieval fortress, but pretty damn close. Atlas bought the sprawling estate in Rumson on a whim—because of course he did—and now we’re calling it home.
It’s grand and dramatic and a little ridiculous, with arched windows, polished stone floors, wrought iron gates, and a view of the Atlantic Ocean that makes my Greek husband look far too smug every time he gazes out like Poseidon surveying his domain.
The man belongs near the sea. I’ve made my peace with it.
And now, apparently, so do I. But hey, there are worse things than an ocean view, right?
It’s early January, and the glitter of the holidays has just started to fade. The world is cold, but there’s warmth in this house—laughter, family, the smell of food, and something I never thought I’d have again after everything that happened.
Joy.
Because we’re doing it.
The wedding.
A real one this time.
And in true Volkov Clan fashion, it’s turning into a full-blown event.
Right now, I’m seated in what Atlas calls the east wing solarium, but I’ve renamed the bridal chaos zone.
There are jewel-toned ribbons everywhere, boxes of finger sandwiches, champagne flutes, and at least five different types of cake because my Aunt Destiny is not taking chances.
“I just can’t believe you kept it a secret,” Clementine says, flipping her hair over one shoulder like she’s auditioning for a bridal reality show. “Married in Greece? No photos? No live stream? You wound me, cousin.”
“Oh my God, shut up, Clemmie. So dramatic!” Lucy snorts.
“You got hitched on a yacht, Cece,” Lee-Lee adds, pouting as she grabs a chocolate-dipped strawberry. “And now you’re in a castle. A real freaking castle. What’s next, a crown?”
“She already has one,” my cousin Jade smirks, handing me a sparkly tiara from the party store. “Princess Stavros. It’s official.”
“You’re all insane,” I laugh, but I let them put it on my head, anyway.
Across the house—probably in one of the wood-paneled studies my husband pretends not to like—is the groom’s luncheon.
I’m told it involves whiskey, cigars, lamb chops, and several members of my family giving Atlas a very hard time.
My father, especially.
“I’ll handle them,” Atlas said earlier with that half-smile and glittering caramel gaze, kissing my shoulder like it belonged to him. “After everything I’ve survived, facing your uncles is child’s play.”
He said it lightly, but I know the truth behind those words. We’ve both been through hell. And now we’re clawing our way back to the light.
With each other.
And the thing is? I’m positive that is exactly where we’re supposed to be—together.
I glance down at my left hand—at the ring he gave me, cleaned and perfect, sparkling like new. The single pearl and the surrounding diamonds, ancient and bold, full of history and pride, just like the man who offered it. Just like the woman I’m becoming.
Husband and wife.
One love. One family. No secrets.
And this time? It’s on our terms.