Chapter 64
Chapter Sixty-Four
A DOWNTON WEDDING
Celeste
Now, after watching each episode at least half a dozen times, I'm actually here.
My heels click against the polished marble as I wander through Highclere Castle's grand corridors, trailing my fingertips along cool stone walls that have witnessed centuries of history.
Our wedding will take place in the saloon—that breathtaking central hall where ornate oak paneling climbs toward a vaulted ceiling, and stained glass windows cast kaleidoscope patterns across the floor.
I pause at the entrance, tilting my head back to admire the balconies of the upper floors that encircle the space like a Victorian theater, imagining guests leaning over the intricately carved railings to witness our vows.
My hands aren't shaking. My heart isn't racing.
This wedding feels right—a celebration Max and I crafted together, not some spectacle thrust upon me.
The guest list reads like a family album rather than Variety's power rankings.
The castle's in-house caterers will serve our meal, no celebrity chef required.
Each face I'll see today belongs to someone who matters deeply to one or both of us.
We're exchanging vows because we can't imagine life without each other, not because a contract demands it.
The absence of Hollywood royalty (save for Max's brother Connor and their grandfather) feels like a blessing rather than a compromise.
I wander through the castle's grand rooms, tracing the fictional footsteps of the Crawleys.
In the saloon, the library, the breakfast room where aristocratic dogs once lounged beneath the table.
I pause in the spot where Lord Grantham received news of the Titanic disaster.
Standing in the formal dining room, I'm surrounded by ghosts of dramatic dinner conversations.
I close my eyes, smile, and let the castle work its magic.
The iconic theme music practically echoes off the ancient stones.
This time around, I picked my own dress - a simple white column with a halter neckline that flatters my swimmer's shoulders. Instead of a cathedral veil, tiny crystal flowers crown my hair like stars. No Episcopal bishop in gold-trimmed robes today; just a smiling magistrate in a simple suit.
When we say "I do," the small crowd erupts. Later, under a white tent on the castle grounds, Max takes my hand for our first dance. The familiar notes of Arctic Monkeys' "Baby, I'm Yours" fill the air - the same song from our first wedding.
"I picked this song the first time because it was already true," Max whispers against my ear. "I just couldn't admit it then."
I pull back to search his face, my heart stuttering.
All those months of tension, of fighting feelings behind cold shoulders and closed doors - he'd been falling too.
That first night at the dinner when he glared across the table, when I thought he despised me...
we were already orbiting each other, caught in a gravity neither of us understood.
Two people, secretly in love while pretending otherwise. What are the chances?