Chapter 226
Apple and Scarlette hover close while they dab at my cheeks with cool, damp sponges and pat fresh powder over the faint redness around my eyes. The mascara has already been touched up twice; every time I blink too hard, fresh tears threaten to spill again. I keep my lips pressed tight so the lipstick doesn’t smear.
When I finally step outside David’s front door, a small laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it.
There, waiting at the bottom of the shallow steps, stands an open carriage painted in white gold, its panels catching the last of the daylight like pale metal. White and red roses, peonies, and sprays of stephanotis twine along every rail and curve, their scent thick and sweet on the breeze. A dozen children—six boys, six girls—line up in front of the horses, all dressed in pristine white.
The boys wear neat tailcoats with slim trousers, the fabric so fine it looks almost liquid in the soft glow. The girls are in flowing ruffle gowns, skirts brushing the gravel. Every head wears a crown of rhododendron ‘Quakeress’—pale pink and cream petals so perfect they seem made of porcelain. In their small hands they clutch bouquets: white orchids and roses mixed with pink azaleas and carnations. The boys’ lapels carry the same mix, plus bursts of vivid orange that catch the eye like tiny flames.
I turn to Scarlette, mouth open, words gone. She simply grins widely.
I told her about that ridiculous childhood fantasy once—being married like some mediaeval princess, carriage and all. I’d laughed it off the second the words left my mouth. I never thought she’d remember, let alone make it real.
The path ahead is edged with flowers laid out in careful rows: pink, red, orange, white, lavender, every bloom seeming to hold its own faint light. Another laugh escapes me, shorter this time, and I have to press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep the tears from falling properly.
Then I see the cats.
Half a dozen of them sit in a perfect line directly in front of the carriage horses—tails curled neatly, chests puffed, each one wearing a tiny collar of white ribbon threaded with miniature roses. They regard the world with the calm superiority only cats can manage. Not one twitches a whisker out of place.
“How on earth did you get them to sit still?” I whisper.
Scarlette drops into an exaggerated curtsey, skirts sweeping the gravel. “One fairytale wedding, as requested, Your Highness.”
Violet’s voice rings out behind us, bright and triumphant. “Divide and conquer!”
She glides forward, already radiant in layers of white tulle shot through with violet silk. Of all of them she looks the most like something that stepped out of a jewellery box—porcelain skin, violet eyes, hair pinned with amethysts. Clearly the lead flower bride.
“Divide and conquer,” I repeat slowly. “So only a few knew where the actual venue was.”
“Exactly,” Violet says, smug.
“What a beautiful waste of money,” I mutter, half to myself.
Zinnia snorts. “Just shut up and go with it.”
Scarlette takes my elbow. “Come on. We can’t keep your mate waiting, and I refuse to stand on these heels another minute.”
I open my mouth to protest that it’s all far too much, that I don’t deserve this kind of extravagance. But a quieter voice in the back of my head tells me to stop. They’ve poured hours—days—into this. Complaining would be the quickest way to ruin it.
So I let Scarlette guide me up the two small steps into the carriage. The bench is upholstered in cream velvet, surprisingly soft beneath the layers of my gown. The moment I settle, the children and cats move as one. The little voices lift in a song I don’t recognise—high, clear, strangely old-fashioned. The cats trot ahead like a strange honour guard, tails high.
The carriage rolls forward with a gentle sway, no driver in sight. I sit there caught between dizzy joy and the slow burn of embarrassment creeping up my neck. Part of me feels absurd, a grown woman riding in an open carriage like a child playing pretend. Another part—the bigger part—doesn’t care. By the end of tonight I’ll be Sapphire Linnea Ajax. Whatever name I carried before will fade into paperwork; my pack will still call me by my father’s surname, and that’s enough.
Nerves twist low in my stomach.
Zinnia practically vibrates with excitement, tail flicking against our mind floor.
The carriage follows the glowing flower path past familiar turns, then veers toward the alpha’s house. Of course. That’s why I never found the venue. They kept me away from Hendrix’s place the entire time I was recovering—muttering about “pack law” and “tradition.” Liars, the lot of them.
I feel a quiet wave of nostalgia as the carriage rolls past the glowing gemstone cherry blossom and plum trees, their petals catching the soft light in faint, shimmering pulses. I missed this place more than anywhere else—this was my first home, stolen from me before I could ever truly claim it.
I scrunch my nose, pushing away the thought of Astra settling into the mansion during my absence, and the even sharper thought of what she might have shared with Drix. I know, deep down, there was nothing.
No jealousy.
I force myself to breathe evenly, think rationally.
The carriage slows and pulls to a stop at the front of the mansion. I hadn’t expected the grounds to hold the entire pack, but they do—rows of chairs neatly arranged, the air thick with the sweet, heady scent of fresh blooms. The wedding theme is flora: vibrant flowers everywhere, their petals lit from within like living Christmas lights, casting warm, shifting colours across the path and the faces of the waiting guests.
I don’t care much about the theme or the decorations. What matters—what I care about—is the man standing at the far end of the aisle. He watches me with the most heartwarming smile, the kind that softens every hard line of his face, dimples deepening, eyes crinkling at the corners.
I could have ruined that smile. The thought arrives uninvited and sits heavy in my chest.
“No sad thoughts, Sapphire,” Zinnia mutters, low enough that only I hear. “Just him.”
My palms are clammy already. David appears at the carriage door, offering his arm. I take it. He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, covers my knuckles with his broad palm, and starts us down the aisle. The heels force me to lengthen my stride; without them I’d be half-jogging to match his measured pace.
“Relax,” he murmurs, voice pitched just for me. “Breathe.”
My mind skids back to the void, the teeth around my ribs, the black water rushing up. I glance left and right at the rows of smiling faces, every single one beaming like this is the happiest day they’ve witnessed in a decade. I nearly took it all away. Again.
Zinnia gives a soft warning growl inside my head. Focus.
I force the air in and out. I didn’t die. I didn’t destroy everyone’s evening. Nothing hurts now except the faint ache in my chest from earlier.
The only thing that matters is the man waiting at the other end of this ridiculous, beautiful aisle.
My heart gives a sudden, hard lurch as a thought crosses my mind. I left my father behind in that place. What if he never gets out? What do I say to Mum if—when—I see her again?
“Sapphire.”
My whole body jerks, my head snapping around.
“Sapphire, are you okay?”
I blink hard. The world snaps back into focus. Hendrix stands directly in front of me now, close enough that his scent is overwhelming. A small crease sits between his brows; his mouth turns down at the corners in that particular worried way he has.
“You’ve been staring straight through me,” he says quietly. “Tears in your eyes.”
I realise then that my cheeks are wet. I must have drifted off mid-step. I open my mouth to apologise but behind Hendrix’s shoulder, something small and scarlet flits through the air. A red butterfly. It hovers for half a heartbeat—long enough for me to see the flicker. My father’s face overlays the moment like a double-exposed photograph: red hair, tired eyes, the same gentle smile he gave me in the void. His hand rests, for the briefest instant, on top of mine where it lies clasped in Hendrix’s.
He’s all right.
I drag in a shaky breath and swipe at the tears with the edge of my little finger, careful not to smear the makeup again.
“I’m fine, Hendrix,” I tell him, and my voice only wobbles once. “I’m just… happy.”
He studies my face another second, concern lingering. “You sure?”
“Positive.” I squeeze his hand. “Now let’s get back to the wedding.”
The crease between his brows smooths. That warm smile returns, softer this time, and he nods once. We turn together toward the officiant—Grandma—toward the rest of our lives.