Chapter 155 155

Chapter 155 155
My hand flies to my throat as Mama unclasps her signature pearl necklace—the one she’s worn every day since I was fifteen years old. The very first thing she bought for herself after she walked out on the man she once thought she loved.

“Mama, no…” I protest weakly, but she’s already moving behind me.

“Hush,” she tuts, draping the strand around my neck. The pearls are warm from her skin. “Every bride needs something old. These pearls have seen love die and love be reborn. They’ve witnessed both darkness and light.” Her fingers tremble as she fastens the clasp. “Now, they’ll see you choose your own path—the one thing I always wanted for my girls.”

In the mirror, I watch tears slip down her cheeks as she adjusts the necklace. The pearls gleam softly against my skin, like they’ve been waiting all this time to rest here, on this day.

“Mama…” I try again, but she shakes her head.

“No crying,” she says firmly. “You’ll ruin Zoya’s hard work.”

Uncle Kosti’s arm is steady beneath my hand as we pause at the top of the aisle. “Ready, koukla?”

I can’t speak past the lump in my throat. I don’t know if I’m really ready, anyway. How could I be? Every second is the most perfect second I’ve ever had. I want to memorize every detail.

The warm August breeze tousles the curls framing my face. In the seats are the people I love most in this world. Over their heads hang lights like the stars came down low just for us, while flickering candles mark the path from where I stand up to the altar. I want to remember how it smells in the air, how the silk of my dress feels on my skin, how the stirring trees are the soundtrack I never knew I wanted for my wedding.

But most of all, I want to remember Sasha’s face.

He stands beneath an arch woven with white wildflowers, hands clasped behind his back. He’s wearing a dark navy suit with an ivory shirt, open at the throat. On his feet are oxblood leather loafers, so perfectly chosen that I want to laugh out loud. His beard has been shaved close to the skin, so it’s just dark, rough stubble coating his cheeks. His eyes have never been bluer as they drink me in, every bit of me, from the flowers woven into my hair to my bare toes, because “heels” and “nine months pregnant with twins” were never, ever gonna mix.

I’ve seen Sasha in so many states—angry, passionate, tender, fierce. But I’ve never seen him look quite like this. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Neither can I.

Feliks stands beside him as best man, practically vibrating with barely-contained joy. Jasmine waits at their side, ready to officiate, looking celestial in a lavender slip dress.

“Yeah,” I tell Uncle Kosti. “Ready.”

And so the march begins. With each step down the aisle, I feel like I’m reliving some part of the past that brought me here. We started as strangers in a bathroom, became enemies by arrangement, then lovers by choice. Every twist in our path has led us to this place, this garden, this moment.

Back to each other, time and time again.

As Kosti and I reach the flower arch, Sasha extends his hand. I release my uncle and take my fiancé.

When I’m in position, Jasmine clears her throat. “We’re gathered here today to witness something extraordinary,” she begins. “Not just the union of two people, but the triumph of choice over fate. Of love over fear.” Her eyes meet mine, then his. “Sasha… Ariel… I’ve watched both of you fight your way here. Through darkness, through pain, through all the reasons you had to give up. But you chose each other every step of the way. Well, almost every step.”

My vision goes fuzzy. Sasha’s hands tighten around mine.

“I could say a lot about what each of you means to me. Sister. Savior. But it’s not my words that matter. It’s yours. So I’ll step aside and let you share the vows you’ve written.”

I gulp. I’m up first. I insisted on that, because if I go second, I’ll be a blubbering mess at the end of Sasha’s vows and there’s no chance I’ll get through my own words.

Here goes nothing.

“Sasha Ozerov,” I say, reading off the page torn from my journal. “I wrote once—in a journal you peeked in; shame on you—that love is war waged softly. Honestly, pretty good line, not to pat myself on the back too much. But it’s not true, as it turns out.” I peek up at him. Blue, so blue, cornflower blue, sky-blue, the most undeniably perfect blue that has ever been painted on this earth. “Love can be waged hard. It can be waged loudly. It can be waged silently. It can be waged when you’re a breath apart or a world apart. But love doesn’t reach its truest form until you realize that it’s not a war at all. I tried to fight against you from the moment I met you. Now that I’m standing here before you, ready to be your wife, my vow is this: I’m not here to fight against you anymore. I’m here to fight with you. I am here to be your soldier, your avenging angel, your reason, your why. I’m here to stitch your wounds and kiss your bruises. I’m here to be soft so you can be hard. I’m here to be gentle so you can be cruel. I love you, Sasha, and I vow to keep doing that long after all the wars have ended.”

I don’t risk a second glance up until I’m done. When I do, I see something I didn’t think possible: a single tear sluicing down Sasha’s cheek.

His turn. He clears his throat. “Ariel… You were on the other side of a door when I met you,” he rumbles. “A bathroom stall door. A men’s bathroom stall door, actually.” A laugh ripples through our friends and family. “But do you know why that’s so perfect, Ariel? Funny enough, you do know the answer. You read it from a book for me once.”

I close my eyes, because I can picture the moment: me pinned against a shelf in the New York Public Library, Sasha huge in my field of vision as he plucked a book from over my head and thrust it into my hands. Long before love was ever a concept in our heads, he knew that there was more to this than we knew how to face. So he borrowed someone else’s words to say what we refused to.

Under my breath, I recite the words from Anna Karenina in unison with him. “‘He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun. But he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.’”

When we finish, he smiles. That lone tear glistens untouched on his cheekbone. “You are my sun, Ariel. You are the bird that flies above it. You are the light I cannot be—so let me be the shadow that keeps you pure. Let my hands be dirty so yours can be clean. Let my sleep be broken so yours can be whole. I’m not your nightmare; I’m the nightmare of anyone who would ever think of dimming one second of your shine. So this is my vow: I vow to keep you flying, ptichka. For as long as we both shall live.”