His fingers lace through yours as you step out of the black car, your heels clicking on sun-warmed stone.

“You nervous?” you ask, watching him glance toward the estate house where laughter spills from the open doors.

He shakes his head once. “No.”

You arch a brow. “Really?”

He exhales. Quiet. “I’ve never brought anyone to meet them.”

You pause. “Anyone?”

He looks at you then. Sharp and soft at the same time. “Anyone.”

Your heart skips. But you don’t let it show. Instead, you smooth your dress, adjust your necklace — the one he gifted you — and squeeze his hand.

“Well,” you murmur, lips curving. “Let’s go make a scene.”

—

The ceremony is gorgeous — all white flowers and classical music, vines curling around wooden arches. You sit beside Xavier, his hand resting lightly on your thigh, thumb stroking back and forth like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

You lean in and whisper, “This your future fantasy?”

He glances at the altar. Then back at you. “Only if it’s with you.”

Your chest tightens. But there’s no time to respond. A relative turns around, asking for introductions.

And so it begins.

—

You meet his mother first. She’s composed. Stunning. Mysterious — like she sees everything.

“And you’re the lawyer,” she says. Not a question.

You nod. “The lawyer.”

She tilts her head. “The only one he’s brought to anything like this.”

You hold her gaze. “Then I hope I’m making a good impression.”

There’s a pause. Then the faintest smile curves her lips.

“You are. He watches you like you hung the moon.”

You swallow hard. Xavier’s watching from a few feet away, deep in conversation with the groom — but his eyes are on you. Constantly. You don’t know if he even realises it.

—

Later, under twinkle lights and strung lanterns, after the champagne toasts and slow dancing, you pull him aside near the edge of the vineyard.

“You okay?” you ask, brushing invisible lint from his suit.

He nods, then glances back toward the crowd. “They all love you.”

“They love your money,” you tease. “And my dress.”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, his fingers slide around your waist. “You were perfect. Better than perfect.”

You roll your eyes softly. “You’re drunk on sentiment.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“I was going to wait until after dessert, but—” His hand slips into his inner jacket pocket. Pulls out a small velvet box.

Your breath catches.

“Xavier—”

“It’s not a ring,” he smirks. “You’d murder me if I proposed at someone else’s wedding.”

He opens the box. Inside: a pair of delicate diamond earrings. Modern. Sharp. Quietly powerful — like you.

“I just… wanted to give you something,” he murmurs, “for coming with me. For meeting my family. For not running.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

So instead, you kiss him — slow, deep, with all the things you haven’t said.

When you pull back, you whisper: “You’ve ruined every other man on earth for me.”

He grins.

“Good.”