Epilogue 1 Less
So, what does a Sigma International Security wedding look like?
I’m glad you asked.
Picture a military parade collided headfirst with a billionaire summit, crashed into a romance novel, and somehow ended up on a private tropical island owned by a Russian billionaire with questionable hobbies and excellent taste in liquor.
That's about right.
Because apparently Adrik Volkov owns an island.
Of course he does.
Nothing these people do is normal.
Not that I'm complaining.
Especially after I learned the reason he volunteered the place.
Turns out his wife is a huge Amanda Perkins fan.
Like fan-fan.
As in, when Rusty walked into the room the first day, Sofia Volkov nearly burst into tears and demanded selfies.
Adrik just stood there with his arms crossed looking resigned.
“Happy wife, happy life,” he'd muttered.
Smart man.
Still weird.
But smart.
The whole thing is completely out of control.
There are flowers everywhere.
Champagne flowing like water.
Half the guests are billionaires.
The other half are heavily armed psychopaths.
Honestly?
The only real difference between those two groups is the tax bracket.
Noel and Holly are here.
Kai and Mary are disgusting and adorable.
Ego and Sabrina somehow became even more nauseating after getting married.
Jack is glaring at everyone because apparently smiling causes him physical pain.
Remy Falco is taking bets on how long I'll cry during the ceremony.
The asshole has me at under two minutes.
And unfortunately?
He's probably right.
Because then I see her.
And the entire world stops.
Amanda.
My wife.
Finally.
My wife.
Jesus Christ.
I still can't believe she proposed to me.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and check her hand just to make sure the ring is still there.
Not because I don't trust her.
Because I still can't believe I got this lucky.
She's standing at the far end of the aisle in soft ivory lace that hugs every beautiful curve I worship.
Mermaid style.
Elegant.
Sexy.
Perfect.
Her red hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders.
Those pale celery-green eyes find mine.
And she smiles.
My mouth literally falls open.
No shame.
None.
Because look at her.
The woman is breathtaking.
I hear someone whistle.
Probably Noel.
Someone else mutters, “Fucker’s gone.”
Correct.
I am absolutely gone.
Amanda laughs softly when she reaches me.
Actually laughs.
Right there in front of everyone.
“You okay, sweetheart?” she whispers.
“No.”
Her eyes widen.
“What?”
“I'm having a medical emergency.”
She snorts.
“Alessio.”
“Seriously. You're too fucking pretty. I think my heart stopped.”
Behind us, I hear Kai mutter, “Jesus Christ, he’s a goddamn poet over here.”
Mary giggles.
Ego groans.
Adrik Volkov actually smirks.
Which is apparently the Russian equivalent of hysterical laughter.
Amanda squeezes my hands.
“Breathe, handsome.”
“I'll try.”
“You know, I almost wore something else. Something plainer.”
I stare at her in horror.
“Why would you say something so terrible on our wedding day?”
She bursts out laughing.
God.
That laugh.
I'd cross oceans for that laugh.
Destroy worlds for it.
Live a thousand lifetimes for it.
“May we begin?” the officiant asks, smiling indulgently.
I nod because, yeah, I cannot wait another second to make Rusty my wife.
And the ceremony?
It’s perfect.
Simple.
Beautiful.
And when the officiant says, “You may kiss your bride,” I don't need to be told twice.
I pull my wife into my arms and kiss her like I plan on spending the next fifty years doing exactly that.
Because I do.
Everyone cheers.
Someone fires off confetti cannons.
And somewhere behind me, I hear Noel shout—“HE CRIED AT ONE MINUTE THIRTY!”
Bastard.
Amanda laughs against my mouth.
“My husband is crying.”
“Shut up.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Impossible.”
“Wanna bet?”
She smiles.
And suddenly all the chaos around us disappears.
The billionaires.
The bodyguards.
The guns.
The drama.
The madness.
All gone.
There's only her.
My Rusty.
My singer.
My best friend.
My home.
Three years ago, I thought I wasn't worthy of her.
Turns out she never wanted perfect.
She just wanted me.
And somehow—by some divine miracle—she still does.
Later that night, as we're slow dancing barefoot beneath strings of lights while thunder rolls out over the ocean in the distance, Amanda rests her head against my chest.
“Hey, Less?”
“Yeah, Sweetheart?”
“You know if you disappear again, I'll hunt you down myself this time.”
I grin.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Means you'll come after me.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You're ridiculous.”
“Yeah.”
“But you love me, anyway.”
Her smile softens.
“I love you always and forever.”
And this time?
I fucking know it.
Because happily ever after isn't some fairy tale.
It's Amanda Perkins stealing the blankets.
It's burned toast and fancy French dinners.
It's Broadway music playing while she dances around the kitchen.
It's waking up every morning beside the woman I love.
It's her.
Always her.
And after everything we've survived—I finally know one thing for sure.
I was made for this woman right here, and now, I'm exactly where I belong.
“You ready?” Amanda asks, and I look down to see my bride grinning up at me, a wicked glint sparkling in her celery green eyes.
“I was born ready, Rusty.”
For this?
For her and me to start our lives together?
That’s the goddamn truth.