“Thank you.” I wonder if she’s talking about more than cosmetics. I was offered the services of the Duchess’s personal makeup artist, but asked Bree to do the honors instead. My sister added a bit more flash for the Dovlano ceremony, with dabs of silver and a touch more rouge, but I still look like me.
The version of me who stood up for herself, informing the Duke and Duchess that I would not be returning to marry Prince Stefano.
I won’t lie and say it went well. Their anger wore down after a few days, but Dovlano media was relentless. Headlines blasted my selfish choice to shirk my duties and marry a man not born of royal blood.
Bradley and I took things in stride, weathering the worst of the media storm from our cozy cabin at Ponderosa Resort. It wasn’t until the Duke himself held a press conference that things calmed down in Europe.
“Listen, you pompous, gormless numpties,” he barked into the mic on the palace lawn. “Piss off and leave Lady Isabella in peace.”
And if those words weren’t enough, Dante drove the message home by lurking behind him with a fierce scowl. At his right hand, Bradley stood at attention in his Army dress uniform. He didn’t need to say a word.
It’s one thing when a woman stands up for herself, making it clear she intends to set the course of her own life.
It's another when the men in her life stand, too, declaring “get it, girl—we’ve got your back.”
Within twenty-four hours of the press conference, the media backed off.
Within forty-eight hours, Dante vanished.
“He’s fine,” the Duke assured me when I expressed concern. “Sometimes, a man just wants a new life for himself.”
It was all I could do not to think of Cort Bracelyn. To wonder if he and Dante bonded over more than just firearms and dead body disposal. It won’t surprise me to see Dante again one day, possibly in some American suburb with a wife and kids; perhaps a pig of his own.
“Here, this is for you.” My mother startles me by slipping a battered scrap of blue fabric into my hand.
I turn it over in my fingers, running my thumb over the silk edge. “What is it?”
Her eyes fill with tears, and instantly, I know.
“From Oliver’s baby blanket.” She takes a shaky breath and meets my eye. “I know there’s an American wedding custom about having something blue, but I wanted to save it for this ceremony. For Dovlano, where his memories are.”
My eyes prickle, and I blink hard to keep the tears from spilling over. “Oh, Mother.” I tuck the scrap into the bust of my gown and pull her in for a hug that’s much tighter than we’re accustomed to in the royal palace. “Thank you. This means so much to me.”
She leans into the embrace for a bit, not saying anything. Her breath ruffles the hair at the nape of my neck, and her arms feel fragile and tense around me.
When she draws back, I see the effort it takes to compose herself. “I need to say something,” she says. “I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe—”
“I do,” she insists, so I shut up and let my mother talk. “The presentation Bradley gave—I—I had no idea. All this time, you felt so guilty. I knew deep down it wasn’t your fault. What happened to Oliver—it was just one of those things, but I couldn’t face it. I didn’t know how to.”
“None of us did,” I respond. “We were all just flailing around in our grief.”
“But I was the parent.” Her brow furrows, a miracle against Botox. “I let you believe it was your fault, but it wasn’t. Seeing things spelled out the way they were in Bradley’s presentation—the PowerPoint slides and graphs and—”
“I know.” I laugh because it’s such a Bradley thing to do.
Some men formally ask for a daughter’s hand in marriage. My groom created a thirty-minute visual presentation spotlighting medical research to prove in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t responsible for Oliver’s death. That no one was.
Maybe deep down, we always knew that. The Duke, my mother, me. But seeing the science erased any lingering doubt.
“I’m sorry.” My mother drags her hankie out again and swipes under her eyes. “For letting you feel responsible. I wasn’t sure what to do with my own guilt, so I put it on you. I’ll never forgive myself for that as long as I live.”
“I forgive you.” I hug her tighter this time, my arms straining against the boning in her formal gown. “And I forgive myself.”
For everything, not just my brother’s death. We’re all just doing the best we can, and sometimes, we make mistakes.
But learning to unravel them, to pivot and move in a different direction—that’s the beauty of building a life filled with happiness and love.
“It’s time, My Lady.”
We turn to see my mother’s courtier ducking out of the room as quickly as she slipped in. I pivot back to the Duchess with a smile.
“Shall we do this?”
My mother nods and touches my arm. “I’m so proud of you.”
The words feel like a bright ball of sunshine I’ve swallowed whole. “Thank you.”
We walk together to the rear of the palace cathedral. Bright swaths of color puddle on the slate floors as sunlight streams through stained glass. It’s Dovlano custom for both parents to walk the bride down the aisle, and the Duke is already waiting. Lifting his chin, he crooks his elbow toward me.
“You’re stunning, my dear.”
“Thank you.” I slip my arm through his, thinking about fathers. Somewhere out there—maybe even hidden in this crowd—is the man who gave me his DNA.
But the parents walking me down the aisle, they’re the ones who raised me. They weren’t perfect—not by a long shot. Neither am I. But the way they’ve embraced my choices—embraced the man I’ve chosen to marry—speaks volumes about their love for me.
I wonder if the Duke hears my thoughts as we float toward the front of the cathedral. “I’m glad you found a man worthy of you,” he murmurs, casting a glance at Bradley up ahead. “If that changes, say the word. I’ll gladly have him killed.”
“Um, thank you?” I’m trying not to laugh as my gaze locks with Bradley’s, and my belly flips over.
It’s still like this after all these months. We’ve endured medical emergencies and family drama, big adjustments and little ones. The man still takes my breath away, and I suspect he always will.
The Dovlanese wedding march surges around us as the twelve-piece orchestra reaches its crescendo right as we reach the altar. The space is decked out in royal gold and purple, with bright bursts of orange roses and white lilies procured from my mother’s garden. The air swirls with candlelight and the scent of spring breeze wafting from the high windows above the altar. I’m sure it’s all quite lovely.
But I only have eyes for Bradley. As I release the Duke’s arm and take my place at my groom’s side, Bradley catches my hands in his.
“I’m the luckiest man on earth,” he murmurs as he dots a kiss behind my ear.
I swallow back the lump in my throat, fighting tears that threaten to choke out words I’ve spent weeks rehearsing. In Dovlano, we get right to the vows at the start of the ceremony. I’m delivering mine in both English and Dovlanese, intent on making sure everyone here knows exactly what this means to me. What he means to me.