Chapter 30 - Donovan
Donovan
Everyone’s finally here in Devil’s Cove, North Carolina—just a few days away from the happiest damn day of my life.
Stella and I have the honeymoon suite. It’s perched high, with a full view of the ocean. The bed faces the balcony, perfectly positioned to catch the sunset pouring in. I can already picture her in that golden hour glow—soft skin, bare shoulders, nothing but my wife and the sea breeze.
But I won’t get to enjoy it with her. Not yet. Ansel put her foot down and declared they’re bunking together until after the wedding. I’m stuck with Theo. Honestly, not the worst trade—the guy’s solid company and snores less than I expected.
Tonight, the whole wedding party hits The Cove Steakhouse for dinner. The place is buzzing. Laughter. Clinking glasses. Someone’s retelling that story about Ansel’s accidental trip to a nudist beach—and Mac is wheezing like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s ever heard. Which, to be fair, it is.
I glance over and catch it—the light hitting Stella’s ring just right.
It still floors me that her mom passed it down to us. There’s something sacred about that. A piece of her family stitched into our forever.
Her nails are painted a dark purple. The same shade as my tie. The same shade I plan to watch wrapped around me when she’s finally, officially mine.
I wake up early the next morning, and I can see the sun rising above the ocean. Nerves have me pacing the room.
It’s still a few hours until we say I do, so I decide to go for a run along the beach. I nudge Theo awake and throw his shirt at him.
“Hey man, let’s go for a run. Mac is meeting us on the beach.” Theo looks at me like I have three heads.
“You do know I teach theater, not football, yeah?” How the hell am I supposed to keep up with you and Cowboy Mac?
I look at him, with my arms crossed, “Okay, okay, Mother. Let’s go for a run.”
We make it to the shoreline, Mac stretching like he’s preparing for battle.
“A few more hours of freedom before you enter the sacred union of slow, consensual suffocation,” he says, grinning.
I punch his shoulder, laughing. “At least I’m getting suffocated by a woman who actually wants me—and knows how to use her mouth.”
He groans, already jogging ahead. “Joke’s on you—I like a little danger with my blowjobs.”
Theo chokes on his laughter, muttering something about trauma. I just take off after them both, sand flying underfoot.
After our hour run—okay, ten-minute run, fifty minutes of pure fuckery along the shoreline—we head back to the rooms to shower and suit up for the ceremony.
The three of us step inside the tavern, suit bags slung over our shoulders. And I stop. Hard.
The place has been transformed.
Vintage string lights crisscross overhead, Edison bulbs casting a soft amber glow. The whole tavern looks like it was lit by fireflies. Romantic. Timeless. Just a little bit unreal.
At the water’s edge, the arch rises from the sand like something out of a fever dream.
Forged from twisted driftwood and rusted iron, it leans slightly with purpose—imperfect, powerful.
One side is wild with florals: delicate pastel flowers, black calla lilies, and greenery that looks like it grew straight from a haunted fairytale.
The other side is stripped back, clean. Balanced. Intentional.
Sheer fabric drapes loosely from the top and catches in the breeze, the edges curling like smoke. The colors are subtle—soft blush, warm ivory—but they shimmer faintly as they move.
Rows of nearly a hundred chairs stretch out across the sand, each one wrapped at the back with a sheer chiffon ribbon: blush and merlot. Alternating. Perfect.
The sound of the ocean blends with the low hum of voices from the team finishing setup, and for a second, the weight of it hits me—this is it. This is where we say forever.
Theo whistles low, hand resting on the back of one of the chairs. “Damn. Looks like a Vogue shoot threw up out here.”
Mac snorts, taking it all in. “Yeah, if Vogue got drunk, wandered into a gothic fairytale.”
Theo grins. “It’s not bad, though. I mean… for something that ends with a guy voluntarily giving up his closet space.”
Mac smirks, tugging at the merlot ribbon on the nearest chair. “If I ever get married, someone just hit me with one of these and end it quickly.”
After we change into our suits, the wedding guests start to arrive. Huxley walks over and asks about our vows. I tell him—our officiant—that we wrote our own.
We are moments away from my happily ever after.
The sun is just starting to set, and everyone has taken their places—Mac is standing next to me in a black suit with a blush-colored tie. I have never seen my best friend clean up so well. Next to Mac is Theo, a last-minute best man, but he has become a huge part of our friends' circle.
Huxley is standing behind me, and the guests stand and turn as Layla toddles down the aisle, my stepmom Vanessa steadying her with a hand. She is carrying the small bouquet of flowers that just so happens to have the rings tied to them. My baby sister looks adorable in her blush-colored dress.
Ansel steps out next, owning the aisle like it’s a runway. Her dress is deep merlot, sleek and elegant, with soft blush accents that catch the light when she moves. There’s a slit up the leg—not dramatic, just enough to say she didn’t come here to be forgettable.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves, a fitted bodice—simple but bold, like everything about her. Her bouquet is tied with silk in the same colors, and her lipstick matches the dress exactly.
Theo and Mac both utter “Goddamn.” Both might need to pick their jaws up off the floor.
I don't respond. Because the music changes to the Young and Beautiful instrumental version.
And just like that—everything else fades.
The breeze shifts. The sun sinks a little lower. And there she is.
God help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.
And I’ve never been more afraid; I’m not worthy of it.
The breeze shifts. The sun sinks a little lower. And there she is.
She doesn’t walk—she commands the aisle.
That dress clings and drapes like it was made just for her, sculpted silk in soft ivory with the barest whisper of blush.
The off-the-shoulder sleeves float around her arms like smoke, and the slit in her skirt moves with her stride, confident and deliberate.
The bodice is structured, corseted—sharp where the rest is soft. A line of pearls scatters like stars along the plunge of her neckline, subtle but deliberate. She looks like a secret and a promise, all at once.
Her hair is swept back into a soft, low twist at the nape of her neck, not overly done, just effortless and polished—like she woke up knowing she was the most powerful woman in the room. Her lips are painted a deep merlot color. My color. My undoing.
She’s not just beautiful. She’s the kind of love that carves its name into you, permanent and soft and deep—a storm wrapped in silk. A woman who knows exactly who she is—and chose me anyway.
And for the first time in my life, I understand what it means to kneel without ever hitting the ground.
She doesn’t bring me to my knees—she makes me want to kneel, like it’s holy. I’ve never bowed to anything in my life… until her. And Stella Carrington is the only altar I’ll ever need.
Even gods have their reckoning. But right now, I’d worship her forever.
She stops in front of me, her father kisses her cheek, and he walks back to his seat. Ansel steps forward, carefully taking Stella’s bouquet of black calla lilies and blush peonies—the same kind I gave her that night in Agave Hills.
I have to wipe the tears from my face.
Huxley begins to speak, his voice steady as the wind curls around us, the waves soft in the distance. I don’t hear much of it—just enough to ground me. Enough to make it real.
Then it’s time.
We’re saying our vows.
“Stella—From the first time I saw you, I knew I’d spend the rest of my life trying to keep up. You are fire and velvet. Sharp and soft in ways I still don’t fully understand, but I want to spend forever trying.
You don’t just light up rooms. You set them alight. You challenge me. You ground me. You see through every mask I’ve ever worn—and somehow, you still chose me.
I promise to show up for you, even when it’s hard. I promise to listen when I’d rather speak, to learn when I think I already know. I promise to love you in ways that feel like truth—not perfection, but presence.
I vow to give you the kind of love that doesn’t flinch in the dark.
You are the only altar I will ever kneel before, and the only future I’ve ever been sure of.”