33. Margot
33
MARGOT
T he sky is the exact shade of soft lavender I swore Madeline fabricated for the invitation suite. A warm breeze dances across the hilltops, rustling the white petals strung along the trellises and teasing the chiffon drapes lining the event tent. Beyond the sprawling grounds, a vineyard unfurls in perfect rows, golden with early summer light. The entire property looks like something out of a lifestyle spread, clean gravel paths, sun-dappled olive trees, and a main house that blends French country charm with California opulence.
We’ve officially arrived at Maison Valrose, the private estate we rented for the wedding weekend, and somehow, it’s real. The Friday check-in is supposed to be low-key, just the bridal party, immediate family, and the very determined elite guests who RSVP’d with alarming speed. But even now, standing on the stone terrace in soft heels and a linen dress, watching Grayson talk to his mother under a tree wrapped in fairy lights, it feels like the opening scene of a three-act fairytale. Too beautiful. Too surreal. Too perfect to last.
“I give it three hours before someone cries,” Olivia says, appearing at my side in an all-black jumpsuit, her tablet clutched like a weapon.
“Someone already did,” I reply. “It was Madeline. The florist got the wrong shade of ivory and she threatened to set the peonies on fire.”
“I repeat: three hours.”
Across the courtyard, Mason is laughing at something Alexandra just said. She’s wearing white wide-leg pants and a black silk blouse, her hair up in a sleek knot, and she’s gesturing with a wine glass like she’s about to roast someone to ash. They’ve been orbiting each other since they arrived, close but not touching. It’s very them. Tension wrapped in style.
Meanwhile, Senator Mallory has already commandeered a corner table and is running what can only be described as a soft diplomatic summit over canapés.
“I still can’t believe she agreed to come,” I murmur.
“She said she came for the wine,” Olivia says. “But her dress screams ‘I’m here to network.’”
“God, I love her.”
***
Inside, the main house smells like garden roses and cinnamon-sugar pastries. The kitchen is flooded with golden light, the kind that makes your skin look good no matter how little sleep you’ve gotten. Which is helpful, because I haven’t slept in two nights.
“Did someone put Xanax in the welcome gift bags?” I ask as I dig through a crate of escort cards.
“Just lavender sachets and a threatening note from Madeline about being on time,” Grayson says, entering behind me with a smirk and two sparkling waters.
He looks relaxed. Tan. Ridiculously handsome in a linen shirt rolled to the elbows. The man could’ve stepped out of a cologne ad called Trust Fund Rebel.
“My dad’s already talking to your mother,” he adds. “He asked if the King family tree comes with a printed scandal timeline.”
“Oh God.” I wince. “And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘We don’t print it. We commission oil paintings.’”
I laugh harder than I mean to, and he grins like he lives for it.
Grayson King is infuriatingly good at reading me.
Dinner is served family-style under a canopy of lights. Long wooden tables with white linen runners, fresh bread, glass bowls of olives and citrus, flickering candles in gold holders. There’s laughter. Glasses clinking. Children running under tables. It feels like the wedding before the wedding, the intimate, chaotic, glamorous prelude.
My mom stands to give a short toast and tears up by line three. My dad reads a quote from Pride and Prejudice and pretends he’s not sentimental while everyone else pretends not to cry. Grayson’s father says something about legacy and love and then raises his glass to me with actual sincerity, and I have to look down at my plate to hold it together.
After the toasts, I excuse myself to the powder room. That’s when I notice it. The dress I picked for the dinner is soft ivory silk, fitted at the bodice with a pleated waist. Elegant. Timeless. And now, tight. Not painfully so. But enough. Enough that the curve of my lower stomach, the barely-there swell I’ve been pretending no one would notice, is now unmistakable under the lights and the fabric and the way I keep holding my arms in front of it.
Shit.
There’s a knock. “You okay in there?”
It’s Grayson. I open the door, and he takes one look at my face. Then down at the dress.
His hand slides gently around my waist, resting on the very spot in question. “Do you want to change?”
I consider it.
Then I shake my head. “Let them wonder.”
Grayson smiles. “That’s my girl.”
***
The next morning, the ceremony takes place at the edge of the vineyard, framed by aged oak trees and a simple white arch laced with vines. The air smells like earth and sunlight. Guests gather in rows of wooden chairs, the entire space soaked in golden hour light.
Our officiant is Myra, our old law school friend, who got ordained on a sketchy website and is wearing a robe she ordered off Etsy. Grayson waits for me in a black tuxedo that should be illegal. His smile isn’t just beautiful, it’s real. Like he’s seeing the future and saying yes to it all. The vows are more than personal. They’re us. Imperfect. Fierce. Soft where it matters.
Grayson takes my hands. “You made me believe in things I didn’t think I deserved. Love. Partnership. Peace. And chaos, because let’s be honest, you’re a menace. And I wouldn’t survive a single day without you. I fell for you in a boardroom. I fell harder in the heat of a fight. And I kept falling. Every day, I fall harder now.”
I speak next, voice shaking. “You see all the versions of me, ruthless, stubborn, scared, and you never flinch. You never try to shrink me. You make me feel like more. You’re my calm. My match. My madness. And now, I choose you. Again and again.”
We say I do. We kiss. And everything else disappears. Applause breaks like a wave, sharp, joyful, relentless. Grayson dips me slightly, kisses me again, and someone whistles. Confetti rains down. People stand. They cheer. Even Senator Mallory lifts her glass without comment, which is as close to a declaration of love as she gets.
***
I catch sight of Olivia near the edge of the tent, elegant in black, holding a champagne flute and watching everything unfold with rare, open joy. She lifts her glass at me. I nod, smiling back. Priya is already holding court by the bar, telling a story that makes three guests laugh so hard they nearly spill their drinks. Sophie is talking to the DJ, probably pitching a better version of the reception playlist. Then I see Cassian and Isabella effortlessly cool. Cassian’s in a pale linen suit with no tie, sunglasses still perched on his head. Isabella wears a navy silk dress and a smirk, holding his arm like she’s both amused and in control. They greet guests, mingle with Mason and Alexandra, and generally look like a GQ spread accidentally wandered into a vineyard wedding.
Grayson leans in. “Your chaos crowd is here.”
“So is yours.”
Guests begin to murmur as we move through the party. The music swells. Laughter floats. Champagne sparkles. But I hear it, the soft, curious whispers.
“She’s glowing.”
“Do you think…?”
“That dress is fitted, right?”
Grayson hears it too. His hand curls protectively around my waist.
“You good?” he whispers.
I smile. “Let them wonder.”
He kisses my temple. “They won’t have to wonder much longer.”
And I know, this isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.