Chapter 63
Chapter Sixty-Three
A WEDDING AT LAST
Max
I'm possessed by visions of Celeste's face transforming when she sees Europe through my eyes.
Beyond Highclere—that ancient stone fortress rising from the English countryside where we'll bind ourselves to each other—waits a continent I will conquer for her, every cobblestone street and hidden café a territory to claim in her name.
Lady Carnarvon has become my willing accomplice, conspiring with me to transform the castle's grand state rooms, the magnificent Saloon, that sweeping oak staircase into a cathedral of devotion.
December's brutal cold will surrender to the heat between us.
The first time, she was shackled with a contract.
This time, I'm burning it all down and rebuilding her world from the ashes.
I had a bachelor party, of course, but it wasn't what anyone expected.
No strip clubs. No tequila shots. No waking up with a tiger in the bathroom.
For the first time in my life, I didn't crave the next beautiful stranger.
Instead, I found myself on a private jet to Lake Como with Gianni and my brothers, landing at his family's centuries-old villa with its terracotta roof and cypress-lined drive.
Days blurred between skiing on Piani di Bobbio's double black diamonds and soaking in thermal pools at QC Terme, steam rising around us like ghosts while we nursed glasses of Barolo.
The old Max would have been bored. This Max wasn't.
Not that Celeste would've given me grief over a typical bachelor party - she has faith in me, and rightfully so.
Damn right, rightfully so! Before her, I never earned a woman's trust, always keeping an escape route ready.
The harder they tried to hold on, the faster I bolted.
But with Celeste? There's this... stillness.
I don't look for exits anymore because she's everything I didn't know I was searching for. Never in a million years did I imagine needing someone like her - this brilliant, fearless woman with creativity pouring out of her veins. She doesn’t put up with my bullshit, which is refreshing because so many others do.
She cracks up at the same ridiculous jokes I do, even the ones that make everyone else stare at us like we're insane.
We've built this private universe of inside jokes and references that only make sense to us, which is exactly how it should be.
She sees through me. I understand her. And that's nothing short of magic.
Now I'm in my hotel room at the Vineyard Hotel, a 5-star resort nestled among rolling vineyards with views that stretch to the horizon.
The castle's medieval spires are just visible in the distance, a ten-minute drive away.
We've been given the Grand Suite—a sprawling space where my heels sink into plush ivory carpeting as I wander from the separate lounge with its crystal chandelier to the bathroom where veined marble gleams under soft lighting.
The wedding party has been relegated to the split-level Atrium Suites downstairs, where I imagine them unpacking their garment bags while I run my fingers along the cool granite of the wet bar.
Celeste enters our suite, drops her bags, and I can't help but watch her face.
After months of living together—and soon to be married—she still hasn't grown jaded to the luxury surrounding us.
She circles the room with those ocean-blue eyes widened in wonder, radiating joy like a spotlight.
That's what hooked me—how she finds magic in what I've always dismissed as ordinary.
I needed someone who could make me see my world as the miracle it actually is.
Without her, I'd sleepwalk through this privileged life, blind to its gifts.
She keeps me grounded too, challenging me when needed—hence the $10 million check I wrote to the animal shelter last month.
Speaking of which, I've secured the ultimate wedding surprise that will mean more to her than our marriage itself: Piper!
Hugh and Gail are divorcing, and their kids lost interest in the poor dog.
I honored my million-dollar promise, splitting it evenly between them.
Piper's currently at our Malibu house with a professional sitter (Rosa's here in England for the wedding).
I can picture Celeste's face already when that dog's whole body starts wiggling with excitement.
The red diamond necklace from Christie's—one of fifty natural specimens on earth—cost me ten times the amount I “paid” for Piper, but I know which gift will truly capture her heart. That's precisely why I love this woman.
Celeste's lips part as she steps through the suite.
"Max, this is..." Her voice trails off as she wanders from room to room, fingertips grazing the velvet upholstery, pausing at the fireplace.
In the bathroom, she gasps at the marble tub big enough for two.
"I keep waiting for someone to realize I don't belong here and kick me out," she says with a self-conscious laugh.
"At least I can ask for extra towels without having to use Google Translate.
Small victories for the girl who's never owned a passport before now. "
I laugh and wrap my arms around her waist, feeling the delicate curve beneath my fingertips. "Yes, you know the language here, but we're going on our grand tour of Europe after this. So you'll have to stick with me, otherwise you'll be lost, lost, lost, Ms. Raisin Pop girl."
The memory flashes between us—Celeste's animated retelling of her horrified expression in that fluorescent-lit Canadian convenience store, her nose wrinkling at the purple can labeled "Raisin" in French.
I can picture it perfectly: the way she dramatically recoiled, declaring it the most disgusting flavor concept she'd ever heard, until Tally explained, through tears of laughter, that "raisin" meant "grape" in French.
"Stop," she says, her giggle bubbling up like champagne.
Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink that always makes my chest tighten.
"I'm sure I'm not the only tourist who's been traumatized by Canadian bilingual labeling.
But yes, with your linguistic superpowers, I'll need you as my personal translator through the cobblestone streets of Paris and the wintry plazas of Barcelona.
" She taps my chest with one manicured finger.
"But when we reach Prague, with all those impossible consonants stacked together, I think we'll both be delightfully lost. I can't wait to see the great Max Kensington struggling to order coffee. "
"Well," I counter, pulling her closer until I can smell the jasmine in her hair, "lucky for us, most Czechs speak English. But we'll be lost together under those Gothic spires, so there's that."
Prague wasn't my idea. It was the way Celeste's eyes had lit up when she showed me those photos—medieval bridges dusted with snow, Christmas markets glowing amber against twilight, baroque facades catching the golden hour.
"Magic," she'd whispered, and I'd immediately called my travel coordinator.
We'll see it first, wrapped in its winter splendor, before continuing to France, Italy, Spain, and Portugal—six luxurious weeks of honeymoon that we've carved out from our careers.
Iris can handle Kensington Pictures; she's been practically running it anyway while I've been distracted by falling in love.
This time, it's a real honeymoon for my real wife—not like our first "wedding," that sterile business arrangement that somehow transformed into everything I never knew I needed.