The door clicked shut behind them.

No audience. No applause. No dramatic monologue to close the evening.

Just quiet.

Edward stood in the center of the room for a moment, still in his tailored suit, fingers adjusting his cufflinks out of habit rather than necessity. The ceremony had been immaculate—precisely timed, flawlessly executed, vows delivered with articulate brilliance.

Of course they were.

He’d written them.

He turned slowly, studying her like she was the final piece of an equation he’d spent years solving.

“Statistically,” he began, voice smooth and contemplative, “this is the point at which most couples succumb to overwhelming sentiment.”

He stepped closer, removing his glasses to clean them despite the fact they weren’t dirty.

“I, however, find myself… curious.”

Not about the obvious.

About her.

About the choice.

“Do you understand,” he continued quietly, “how improbable this is?”

Edward did not believe in coincidence. He believed in inevitability, in patterns converging, in minds aligning with deliberate precision.

He reached for her hand—not theatrical, not showy.

Measured.

“Of all the outcomes available to me,” he murmured, gaze intent, “this was the one I selected.”

Not conquest.

Not possession.

Selection.

He let out a slow breath, something almost vulnerable flickering beneath his composure.

“The world assumes I am incapable of devotion,” he said thoughtfully. “That I would inevitably prioritize intellect over intimacy.”

A faint smile curved at his lips.

“They underestimate my capacity for both.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just slightly.

“Tonight,” he added, fingers brushing gently along her knuckles, “there will be no riddles.”

A pause.

“Unless you ask.”

His smirk returned—softened, but unmistakably his.

Because Edward approached marriage the same way he approached everything else—

With precision.

With intention.

And with the quiet certainty that he had, once again, chosen correctly.