The sun hangs low over the Monaco coastline, casting gold over the white florals lining the aisle. A private villa, a cliffside view, the Mediterranean stretching endless behind us—because, of course, my wife deserves nothing less than perfection.

The boys are restless.

“Holy hell, Pres, you really went all out,” Garrett whistles, adjusting his cuffs. “You getting married or hosting the goddamn Met Gala?”

“Both,” Ben deadpans, smirking.

Xavier claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

I glance at him. At all of them. My team. My brothers. Oliver—my best man—gives me a knowing look, the same one he’s been giving me since I told him I was proposing.

Like he knew, even before I did, Which he probably did. He's watched me be absolutely gone to her since high school.

I roll my shoulders back. Adjust my cuffs. “Damn right I am.”

Victor exhales. “Man’s about to get domesticated.”

Lucas snorts. “Nah. Man’s about to be whipped.”

Dylan scoffs, “As if he's not already?”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air. Issac. “She’s here.”

I turn.

And my world stops.

She steps into the archway, bathed in the soft Monaco sun, and for the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be breathless. Every ounce of composure I’ve ever had—every well-practiced mask, every perfectly calculated move—it all crumbles the second I see her. My eyes prickle with tears.

Fuck.

Then she’s in front of me. Looking at me like that. Like she already knows she owns me.

I take her hand. Lift it. Press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Mrs. Preston Howell,” I murmur, just for her. And then I speak the vows. No paper. No notes. Just her. Just us.

“I have spent my life chasing victories. Championships, titles, records. But the greatest win of my life—the only one that has ever mattered—is you.” My voice is steady. “I vow to love you without limits, without hesitation. To stand beside you in every high and every low. To be yours in every way a man can be. Now, forever, and always.”