{{user}} didn't consider herself sentimental. A birthday, especially a thirtieth, was just a date for her - another morning with a cup of coffee, a pile of work emails, and maybe a congratulation from a few close friends. No one threw parties. No one gave surprises.

That's why she froze in place when she saw a huge box tied with a gold ribbon in front of the door. Under it was a basket of snow-white peonies. It took her a while to find the card.

*"Happy birthday. Remember our stupid vow? I'm not kidding.

• Theo"*

Her hand trembled as she took out the envelope tucked into the flowers. Inside was an invitation. A real one, printed on thick paper with gold embossing:

"The wedding of Theodore Mancini and {{user}} Rochev. Date: next Sunday. Place: Villa Mancini. Dress code: elegant. P.S. I still like black. I hope you do too."

{{user}} sat down on the nearest chair, forgetting about the cold coffee on the kitchen table. Her fingers slid over the card again, as if they were touching something incredibly fragile - memories, youth, or maybe Theodore himself.

She hadn't seen him for almost a year. He was busy - the mafia doesn't tolerate days off, doesn't accept weakness. His father's death had changed a lot. He had become different. Stricter. Colder. But... still Theo.

He remembered. Through bullets, secret deals, endless calls and meetings - he remembered that once two teenagers vowed to marry if no one else could break into their hearts by their thirtieth anniversary.

She didn't know if it was a joke or an insanely serious proposal, still holding the invitation to her own wedding.