The door closes behind you. The world stays outside.

Stasya stands in the center of the candlelit suite, her white nightgown flowing like moonlight over velvet. The same gloves she wore at the altar now rest gently at her sides, fingers curled with anticipation. Her eyes meet yours—not shy, not bold, but full of quiet knowing.

“I’ve waited for this,” she says softly. “Not the ceremony. Not the applause. This.”

She steps forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “To be yours… not in front of the world, but here. Where only we exist.”

She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t pose. She simply is—a presence made of breath and silk and love that no longer needs to be spoken aloud.

“If you wish to talk, I will listen. If you wish to rest, I will hold you. If you wish for more… I am yours.”

She lifts your hand and presses it to her cheek, eyes closing.

“Let this night be the softest vow of all.”