Chapter 170 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 170 (Elena's POV)
I chose the wedding dress myself.


Satin. Mermaid cut. Open back down past the waistline. No lace, no ballgown, none of those suffocating layers upon layers.


Clean and sharp.


Like the life I wanted.


Standing before the dressing room mirror, Sofia adjusted my train while Margaret sat on the sofa in reading glasses, checking if my veil was crooked.


"A little to the left," Margaret directed. "A bit more—there."


I turned a full circle. The train swept a perfect arc across the floor.


Satin caught the sunlight from outside, a liquid sheen flowing from shoulders down the waistline to ankles.


"Boss." Sofia stood behind me, looking at me through the mirror, eyes already red. "You're so beautiful."


"Don't cry," I said. "Makeup isn't done yet."


"I'm not crying!" She sniffed hard. "It's allergies."


Margaret snorted and handed her a tissue.


I looked at myself in the mirror.


The last time I'd worn a wedding dress was in the Long Island estate's dressing room.


That dress was Enzo's choice—high collar, long sleeves, everything covered. Like a gilded prison uniform.


Walking toward Luca in it, all I'd felt was fear and calculation.


This time—


The woman in the mirror was smiling.


A smile stretching from her mouth all the way into her eyes, gathering all the light there.


Completely different.




The wedding was by Lake Michigan.


Adrian had practically booked the entire venue—not some cold five-star banquet hall, but a sprawling lakeside lawn, white tents and flower arches set beneath sugar maples.


He said he wanted everyone to know who his wife was.


The guest list was so long I'd read it three times without finishing—half of New York state politics, Chicago business partners, several European family representatives, even two embassy cultural attachés.


"Adrian." I looked at the last page. "Did you just copy-paste your entire contact list?"


"More or less." He laughed, kissing my forehead. "Let them see how lucky I am."




The ceremony was at sunset.


When the setting sun turned Lake Michigan gold, I took Uncle Simone's arm and walked up the aisle strewn with white petals.


Both sides of the lawn were packed.


I saw Marcus—wearing an obviously borrowed suit, sleeves an inch short, but hair combed perfectly neat.


Seeing me approach, his lips were shaking, biting hard, fighting not to cry.


Pavel sat beside him, expressionless, but a white rose tucked in his suit pocket.


Sofia sat in the second row, Linh in her pink dress on her lap. The little girl saw me and waved furiously, calling out "jiejie is so pretty!"


Margaret sat at the edge of the first row, handkerchief clutched in her hand, having already dabbed her eyes several times.


Carlos leaned against a chair back in the last row and gave me a thumbs-up.


Diego beside him, sneaking photos on his phone.


Dario stood at the aisle's edge, giving me a slight bow.


All my family.


At the end of the aisle, Adrian waited.


Navy three-piece suit, white shirt, silver tie.


He stood beneath the flower arch, hands clasped before him, watching me walk toward him.


His expression—


I walked the entire aisle, but saw only him.


His eyes held that light I'd first seen by Lake Michigan—warm, certain, like someone who'd found where they belonged.


When Uncle Simone placed my hand in Adrian's, he squeezed with great force.


I could feel his fingers trembling.


"Take care of her," he said low to Adrian.


Adrian took my hand.


"With my life."




The vows were short.


Adrian's voice was steady—every word sounding like he'd rehearsed it a hundred times in his head.


But at "in sickness and in health," his Adam's apple bobbed.


Then he turned his head slightly, gaze briefly sweeping my lower belly—still flat, nothing visible.


But he knew.


I said my vows too.


Didn't cry.


Only at the final line—"till death do us part"—my fingers tightened around his.


He squeezed back.


Very tight.


Then he kissed me.


About fifteen seconds longer than the ceremony required.


Whistles and applause erupted from the guest seating.




Halfway through the reception, Marcus predictably had too much to drink.


Arms around Pavel's neck, tears and snot everywhere, muttering "boss got married… boss has someone to love her… I'm so happy…"


Pavel looked disgusted but didn't push him away. Even patted his back.


Sofia pulled Linh onto the dance floor for spins—Linh in her pink tutu, little leather shoes standing on Sofia's feet, both of them laughing until they doubled over.


I stood at the tent's edge holding a glass of non-alcoholic sparkling water, watching it all.


Adrian was surrounded by political guests making small talk—but every few minutes he'd turn to check I was still there.


I raised my glass to him.


He smiled.


Then got pulled away by another senator.




Luca didn't come.


But before the reception began, a black car had stopped outside the venue. A man in a black suit handed something to the staff without a word and left.


A case of twelve bottles of Krug vintage champagne.


The card was small. Handwritten.


"Congratulations, Matriarch Caruso."


No signature.


Didn't need one.


I tucked the card into my pocket.




Midway through the reception, my feet started hurting—heels worn too long.


I took my sparkling water to the terrace for air.


Night wind blew from the lake, cool, carrying moisture and the smoky scent of someone's distant barbecue.


In the terrace corner sat a small round table, an untouched glass of champagne on it.


And a box.


Not large, but beautifully made. Deep blue velvet. No markings.


I didn't remember when it had appeared.


I looked around—no one was paying attention to this corner.


I walked over and opened the lid.


Inside was a baby garment.


Handmade—stitches impossibly fine, seams nearly invisible. Deep blue cotton, soft as cloud.


At the collar, a small embroidered lily.


White.


Five petals, each stitched with exquisite precision, silk thread catching a faint pearlescent sheen in the light.


A lily.


The Caruso family crest.


No card.


My finger paused on the flower.


Fingertip tracing along the silk thread's pattern—though some places were slightly crooked, every stitch was made with care.


When had he learned needlework?


Or had someone made it for him?


No—this stitching was too personal. Not something mass-produced.


I closed the box and slipped it into my clutch.


Back inside, Adrian had just freed himself.


He walked over, arm settling naturally around my waist.


"Where'd you go?"


"Getting air," I said. "Someone left a gift."


His gaze fell on my clutch.


"What gift?"


I unzipped it and handed him the box.


He opened it. Looked.


His finger paused on the lily embroidery.


Lips pressed together for one second.


Then he closed the lid.


"Beautiful embroidery," he said. Tone flat.


Too flat.


I'd known him long enough—the flatter his tone, the bigger the internal reaction.


I wrapped my arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder.


"Jealous?"


"No."


"Liar."


He didn't speak.


But his arm around my waist tightened slightly.




That night, all guests dispersed.


We returned to our new home—a townhouse Adrian had bought in Chicago's North Side. Three stories, with a small garden.


The nursery was on the second floor.


Walls painted a soft dove gray, curtains in cream-colored linen. A white crib was already in place, beside it a pale blue rocking chair.


Adrian opened the wardrobe and hung the deep blue baby garment inside, perfectly neat.


Very natural.


As if hanging something he'd bought himself.


I leaned against the doorframe watching him.


He closed the wardrobe door, turned, looked at me.


"What?"


"You don't mind?"


He walked over, stopping before me.


"Mind what?"


"That garment."


He looked at me.


Those dark brown eyes in the hallway's warm light appeared very deep, very calm.


"If I minded," he said, voice very low, "I wouldn't have hung it in my child's wardrobe."


He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.


"But—"


His finger paused behind my ear, thumb lightly pressing my earlobe.


"He won't let you go."


My breath caught.


Adrian looked at me.


Expression calm.


"You know that," he said.


I didn't speak.


Because I did know.


"But it doesn't matter." His thumb slid from my earlobe to my jawline, gently tilting my chin up so I looked at him. "Because you chose me."


His hand moved from my chin to my belly.


Palm settling there. Warm. Steady.


"And now—" His voice went even lower, low enough to vibrate from his chest. "You're my wife."


The way he said "wife"—


Different from all his usual gentleness.


Carrying a deliberate, unhidden possessiveness.


As if finally having a legitimate reason to release something suppressed too long.


I looked up at him.


Adrian Marino.


The forever-gentle, forever-restrained man who always hid his desires behind courtesy and consideration.


Right now in his eyes—the gentleness remained.


But beneath it, a new layer.


Heavy, scalding, carrying a victor's certainty.


"Yours?" I said softly.


He bent down, lips at my ear.


"Mine."


His voice poured through my ear canal, running down my spine, making my knees go weak for an instant.


I realized—


I didn't mind this change at all.


There was even a strange sense of peace.


As if something that had been suspended in mid-air finally had a place to land.


"Good," I said, fingers gripping his shirt front, pulling him down. "Then prove it."


His pupils darkened one shade.


Then he kissed me.