Chapter 33
PORTIA
I t was a miracle, really, that the sun was kind to us.
No blistering heat, no sudden storm breaking through the horizon. Just a warm breeze rustling the jasmine garlands and the low hum of anticipation weaving through the gardens of Dominion Hall.
The weddings were today.
Seven of them.
And by some cosmic sleight of hand—or the ghost of Monte pulling strings from somewhere beyond—it was all going exactly to plan.
I moved through the great lawn like a conductor on the edge of a symphony, headset clipped discreetly in place, clipboard tucked against my hip.
From a distance, no one would’ve known I was also one of the brides.
My dress, still hidden away, waited in a suite above the bridal hall.
Bea had already rehearsed the handoff—when I would step away from the planner’s role and become a bride myself.
But until then?
Until that exact second?
I was still the woman who made the impossible happen.
“Confirm aisle petals are down for Isabel’s ceremony,” I whispered into the mic, eyes scanning the chairs, the altar, the second-string violinists tucked near the fountain.
“Claire’s garden arbor still needs lighting adjusted.
And somebody check that the signature cocktail signage hasn’t blown away again. ”
Behind me, Bea’s voice chimed in, cool and crisp: “On it.”
She was flawless. Monte would’ve been proud.
My throat tightened at the thought of him—gone but threaded through every inch of this day.
I could still see his meticulous notes in the final drafts of the security placements.
Still hear his voice reminding me to keep my chin up, to trust the backup team he’d trained.
The Dominion guys were scattered throughout the estate—watchful, discreet, absolute professionals.
I exhaled.
One hour to go.
Guests filtered in like whispers—politicians, old-money families, operatives in disguise.
A billionaire hedge fund mogul brought his mistress and his wife, seating them two rows apart.
An Eastern European princess asked for a rosé spritz in her to-go cup.
The mother of the bride for wedding #5 insisted we double-check the lace count on the runner even though it had been pre-approved three times.
It was chaos.
But it was my chaos.
Each bride was a vision.
Sloane, in silk and shadow, a dagger pinned discreetly to her garter.
Claire, wild and radiant, her bouquet a tangle of thistle and blood-red dahlias.
Vivienne, timeless in long sleeves and pearls, looking like she'd stepped out of a Vogue spread. Hallie Mae, soft and steel beneath layers of tulle. Anna, wrapped in chiffon and irreverence. And Isabel, who wore leather heels with her satin gown like she’d dare anyone to stop her.
And then there was me.
The woman who'd built this empire from trailer park dreams and endless nights hunched over invoices. The woman who’d run from love and family and her own name until it caught up with her.
Now I was marrying Silas Dane.
My Silas.
I’d stepped into his world with caution and come out with blood on my hands, love in my chest, and a vow I was ready to live.
“Portia,” Bea said gently over the headset. “It’s time.”
I turned, slow and breathless, as the last of the guests were seated. The transitions were seamless. Bea would run the show now. She’d earned it, and I trusted her more than ever. The first of the ceremonies would begin in seven minutes.
I moved toward the suite where my gown waited, where my mother’s voice lived in the voicemail I’d listened to ten times this morning, where my sisters had texted a photo of themselves in the Danes’ private jet, laughing, coming to witness something they never thought they’d see.
Me. In white.
The dress was custom—of course, it was. Ivory silk with a structured bodice, clean lines, and a cathedral-length veil I’d sworn I didn’t want but now couldn’t bear to take off. It shimmered when I moved. It whispered when I breathed.
Just like love.
Outside, the first groom made his entrance—Atlas, stoic and breathtaking in his tux, stepping from the shadows to stand beside his bride. A chorus of camera shutters followed him. The audience stilled.
And then—chaos in the most controlled, cinematic, Dane family way.
The next to arrive was Ryker.
But he didn’t stroll down the aisle like a mortal man.
No.
He came from the water.
A black Zodiac boat appeared, cutting across the sparkling surface of the harbor like a blade.
The breeze snapped through his open jacket, the red silk lining flashing like a flag of war.
He stepped out waist-deep, boots sinking, then walked up the carved stone steps of Dominion Hall like Poseidon himself had given him away.
His bride, Isabel, waited at the top, laughing, one hand pressed to her mouth like she couldn’t believe he’d actually done it.
He kissed her wet and unapologetically, then took his place.
The crowd had barely stopped gasping when a low whine filled the air.
A drone buzzed high above the garden … then higher … until it wasn’t a drone at all. Not anymore.
A figure parachuted down from the blue, black parachute flaring wide like wings above him—Marcus, midair, descending with all the casual confidence of a man used to diving into war zones.
He landed in a spray of petals—deliberate, because, of course, we’d coordinated the drop—and strode forward with his tie loose and grin locked in.
Claire met him halfway, pulled him down by the collar, and kissed him like the sky had delivered him just for her.
Each brother followed suit in some impossible way.
Noah arrived on a vintage Harley. Charlie and Elias emerged from smoke canisters that hissed beneath the floral arch like battlefield theatrics.
Atlas, despite his quiet entrance, had walked barefoot across a shallow stretch of fire-lined stepping stones to get to his bride, smoke curling around his ankles like a legend come to life.
And when we thought it couldn’t get more absurd, fireworks erupted across the harbor.
Even though it was still broad daylight.
Red, white, and gold shot into the sky above the USS Yorktown, bright enough to make guests shield their eyes, loud enough to rattle the champagne flutes. A bald eagle might as well have flown across the moon for how over-the-top it all felt.
It was insane.
It was excessive.
It was perfect.
And finally—it was our turn.
I waited just beyond the trellis as the seventh set of music swelled.
Then he arrived.
But not from the manor. Not from the gardens.
No—Silas arrived by air.
A sleek, silent black helicopter crested the tree line behind Dominion Hall, blades cutting the sky like a warning.
It descended slow and deliberate, a whisper of thunder over the crowd.
The rotors whipped the rose petals into a cyclone as it touched down on the far edge of the lawn, the audience gasping, shielding their faces from the wind.
Silas.
In a tailored black suit that made him look every bit the man who had survived a war and still chose love.
The man who had once haunted my nightmares now walked toward the altar like he was carrying every one of my dreams in his hands.
The sunlight hit his suit just right—tailored black with a crisp white shirt, no tie, no nonsense. Just him. Strong. Sharp. Devastating.
And completely, unmistakably mine.
The crowd rose to their feet.
And in the sea of faces, I saw them.
My family.
My mother, wearing a pale pink dress and holding a tissue to her cheek, her hand trembling as she gripped my father’s arm.
He sat straighter than I remembered, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the aisle as if daring anyone to doubt they belonged here.
My sisters clutched each other’s hands, both of them wide-eyed and radiant in their borrowed Charleston finery, and my brother had the nerve to give me a crooked thumbs-up and a wink, like we were still back in Arkansas and I was sneaking out to my first real date.
I felt my breath catch. For a moment, the jasmine and salt air disappeared. The noise faded. All I could feel was the weight of belonging.
They’d come.
All this time, I’d thought I had to choose—past or present, roots or wings. But now, as I stood at the edge of a life I’d never dared to dream, I realized I didn’t have to choose at all.
They were here. I was still me.
And I was finally whole.
I walked toward Silas alone. No one gave me away. I gave myself.
The aisle was lined with white rose petals, but all I saw was him. All I heard was the thud of my heart as I reached him, his hands slipping into mine.
“You’re late,” he whispered.
“You’re lucky I showed up,” I whispered back.
He grinned—slow and devastating—and that was it.
The officiant spoke. Vows were exchanged. The world held its breath. And then?—
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
He kissed me before the sentence was finished.
And just like that—I was his.
Mrs. Dane.
The seventh bride.
The last ceremony.
The one I never planned for, and the only one I’d never forget.
The receptions spilled across Dominion’s sprawling lawns and terraces, lasting all day—music, dancing, toasts under starlight. There were fireworks. Lanterns. One of the brothers dared another to jump into the reflecting pool. Someone broke a crystal flute and blamed it on the breeze.
It was the happiest chaos I’d ever known.
And in the quiet, after the last toast, I stood beside Silas on the steps of the estate where everything had started and ended and begun again.
His hand found mine. Steady. Strong. Everything I hadn’t known I needed.
“You ready?” he asked softly.
“For what?”
“The next life.”
I turned to him, the weight of everything behind us—and everything ahead—settling in my chest like a promise.
“I was born ready,” I said.
And I was.
Because love didn’t always arrive when you wanted it. It didn’t always look like what you’d dreamed. But when it was real—when it was forged in fire, sealed in blood, and held together with the kind of devotion that could silence an army?—
You said yes.
You said forever.
And you never looked back.
But forever could wait five minutes.
Because the moment the last lantern floated skyward, the moment the crowd began to shift toward dessert tables and after-parties, Silas leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
“Let’s disappear.”
I raised a brow. “You mean sneak off?”
His smirk was sin incarnate. “We’ve had practice.”
I laughed—low and giddy, heat blooming under my skin. “People are definitely onto us by now.”
He took my hand anyway.
Led me past the catering staff, past the hydrangea hedges and the winding garden path and into the shadows of the greenhouse. The glass panes shimmered in the moonlight, fractured beams spilling across the floor.
He pushed me gently inside, then clicked the door shut behind him.
“This is where we’re doing it?” I whispered, the thrill already thudding between my legs.
His eyes swept over me—hungry, reverent. “This is the first time I get to touch you as my wife,” he said, voice rough with awe. “That makes it different.”
I swallowed hard, every nerve lit. “Everything’s different now.”
His mouth curved into something soft, almost stunned. “No more pretending. No more sneaking around.”
I nodded, breath hitching. “No more maybe.”
He stepped closer, hands sliding to my waist. “Just us. All in. Forever.”
And when he kissed me—slow, deep, claiming—I knew this wasn’t just another stolen moment.
This was the first of a thousand beginnings.
The first time I gave myself to him, not as a secret.
But as his.
As Mrs. Dane.
He backed me into a worktable, cleared it with a sweep of his arm. A rustle of broken leaves, a thunk of pots crashing to the floor. He didn’t even blink.
And I didn’t care.
Because when his hands found the back of my dress and began unfastening the buttons with soldier precision and lover patience, I felt like I might combust.
“You wore this for me,” he murmured, brushing the fabric from my shoulders.
“Who else?” I said, breathless, arching into his touch as the dress slipped down and pooled around my feet.
He stepped back for a second—just to look.
And damn him, his voice broke a little. “Jesus, Portia.”
My heels clattered somewhere to the side as I stepped toward him, bare beneath the veil, nothing but skin and adrenaline and that ring on my finger.
“Your turn.”
He didn’t make me ask twice.
The suit jacket hit the floor, then his shirt, and when I ran my hands over the ridges of him, I nearly wept with how right it felt.
Tonight, it was sacred.
He lifted me onto the table and pushed between my legs, his mouth finding mine, his hands rough where I needed them, reverent where it mattered.
We laughed between kisses—at the broken flower pots, at the memory of all the other closets and hallways and barely-shut doors we’d stolen time in over the last few weeks.
“We’ve done this in more rooms than I care to count,” I gasped as his fingers dipped between my thighs, drawing a moan.
“I like the challenge,” he growled, his lips moving down my throat. “Keeps me motivated.”
“And now?” I asked, breath catching.
He paused, lifting his head. “Now you’re my wife. I don’t need to sneak.”
Then he was inside me.
And everything else fell away.
No vows. No toasts. No thundering applause.
Just us.
Just this.
The way we moved—wild and aching and perfect—wasn’t about release. It was about permanence. About sealing what the rings had promised and the blood had proven.
He held me like a man starved.
I wrapped my legs around him like I’d never let go.
We came together with a force that felt like fury and love and everything in between.
And when it was over—when the trembling slowed and the world tilted back into focus—I pressed my forehead to his and whispered, “Guess we have to tell Bea I broke another venue rule.”
Silas grinned. “I’m guessing she already knows.”
I laughed, breathless and free, tangled in his arms, in our past, in our future.
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