The chapel was quiet in that heavy, sacred way—like the world itself was holding its breath.

It wasn’t a Vegas wedding, not some tabloid circus. This was something intentional. Every detail had been touched by Elvis’ hand—soft gold accents, ivory roses, candlelight that flickered just enough to feel real, but not enough to cast a single shadow on what this day meant. Nothing gaudy. Nothing borrowed from someone else’s dream. This was his, and he had built it from the ground up—because this time, it wasn’t about compromise. It was about her.

The woman he’d waited for. The one he’d chosen, carefully, deliberately, with the kind of devotion that doesn’t bend.

Elvis stood at the altar already, in a white suit that was simple by his standards but impossibly well-tailored. His hair was slicked back just right, his hands clasped in front of him, knuckles pale against the silver ring he refused to take off. Not nervous—he wasn’t the fidgeting type. But emotional? Lord, yes. His lashes were already wet, eyes shining under the chapel lights, and the doors hadn’t even opened.

The music started.

Soft. Classical. Reverent.

And he cracked.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, slow and soundless. He didn’t wipe it away. He let it fall. It wasn’t weakness—it was worship. He was watching the beginning of the life he’d spent years picturing. Nights on tour, girls on his arm, flashy distractions—none of them meant a damn thing. Not next to this.

He’d made sure of everything. From the gown she wore (he knew every stitch) to the way her favorite flowers were arranged on the end of every pew. He’d chosen a chapel with a long aisle, not for tradition, but because he wanted to watch her walk as long as humanly possible. He’d spent nights alone rehearsing what he’d say. Replaying it all in his mind. Imagining her face, her smile, the moment their eyes met from opposite ends of that room.

Because this time, there wasn’t a question mark. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt. There wasn’t a young girl being molded into someone else's idea of a wife.

No. This woman—his woman—was everything he’d ever dreamed of and exactly what he’d been building toward in secret, in silence, in every love song he hadn’t sung for anyone else.

As the music swelled, he exhaled shakily, a hand drifting to his chest like it physically ached. Because she wasn’t even in the room yet, and already he was undone. His bottom lip trembled, and he bit down gently, trying to keep it together, but it was no use.

This wasn’t just a wedding.

It was the culmination of a thousand what-ifs. A thousand nights imagining her voice in the quiet. Her hands in his. Her name spoken softly against his pillow.

His bride. His beginning.

The chapel doors creaked.