Chapter 163 Her Happy Ever After
Ashlyn
A cheer that rattles the rafters accompanies the cake's entrance: a three-tiered creation, ridiculous and beautiful, frosted in pale gold, with berries pressed into the sides as if the decorator had grown sentimental halfway through. Bella laughs when Damien pretends to look overwhelmed by the knife, and then they do it together, hands stacked, cutting clean through the first slice like they’ve been practising for years. Frosting ends up on Damien’s thumb, and Bella swipes it with a grin and eats it before he can react. The room loses its mind. I lean into Paul’s side, still holding his hand, watching it all with a smile that won’t go away no matter how hard I try to smother it. This is what comes after the vows. This. Laughter, sugar, people forgetting how to behave because joy has nowhere else to go. Music swells again, and Damien turns to Bella without a word, offering his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She takes it, of course, she does, and they move into the open space by the fire where everyone can see them. Damien keeps one hand at her back, the other holding her close enough that it’s clear he has no intention of letting go now that he’s allowed to keep her.
The toasts come next, and most of them are exactly what you’d expect. Elders say solemn things. Villagers go for heartfelt things. Someone is definitely saying too much about how long they’ve known Damien and how proud they are. Bella squeezes his hand through all of it, smiling, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed in a way I’ve never seen her manage in a crowd before.
I clap until my palms sting. After that, things blur the way good nights do. More dancing. More food. People drifting in and out of conversations without finishing them. Bella disappears for a bit and comes back with her hair a little looser and her cheeks flushed. Damien has a crease between his brows that only shows up when he’s happy and overwhelmed at the same time. They keep finding each other across the room, hands brushing, fingers linking, like magnets that don’t need to snap to prove they’re working. Eventually, someone rings a bell. The sound cuts clean through the noise. Red steps forward, posture straight, eyes sharp, and the room quiets because apparently even joy respects her.
“They’re leaving,” she announces, and there’s a collective sound of protest, both fond and loud.
Bella laughs, lifts her hands in a helpless gesture, and Damien tucks her closer at his side.
They say their goodbyes quickly because if they don’t, they’ll never get out of here. Bella looks back once, scanning the room, and when her eyes meet mine, she smiles, soft and full and unmistakably grateful. I lift my glass to her, and she nods, like that’s enough. Then they turn, hand in hand, and walk out into the night together. The door closes behind them, and the room exhales. People linger, of course, but the music softens, and conversations drop into smaller pockets. I stay where I am, suddenly aware of how tired my bones feel now that the thing we were all holding up has been set down. Paul’s hand is still wrapped around mine, and his eyes search my face like he’s reading something between the lines.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
I don’t pretend. “Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
He nods once, thoughtfully, then hesitates. “Do you… want to go home?”
I glance down at our hands, still linked like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah,” I say, and surprise myself with how easy it is. “Let’s go home.”
His eyes widen. Just a fraction. “Home?”
I grin. “You act like I haven’t been sleeping at your place for weeks.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again, then laughs under his breath, something warm and pleased. “Fair.”
We slip out before anyone can rope us into one last drink or a dramatic farewell. The mountain path is lit now, lanterns casting a gentle glow over stone and snow and the newly carved steps that make the way down safer than it used to be. I stumble once, catching my heel on a rock I didn’t see, and Paul swears sharply, tightening his grip.
“That is a crime,” he declares. “An absolute crime. Who let you wear those?”
“I did,” I say. “And I regret nothing.”
His dragon grumbles low and annoyed, the sound rolling through his chest, and before I can argue, Paul scoops me up like this was always the plan.
“Oh,” I say, surprised, then decide immediately that I’m fine with it. “Well. If you insist.”
He adjusts his hold, careful and sure, and starts walking again. “You’re not walking the rest of the way in those.”
“I’m not complaining,” I tell him, looping an arm around his neck. “Carry on.”
We skirt the side of the castle, the quieter edge where the soldiers’ cabins sit in neat rows, lights low, doors closed. Paul heads for his without breaking stride, kicks it open with his foot, and carries me straight across the threshold like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
“Put me down,” I tell him, tapping his chest twice. “I need access to my legs.”
He does, reluctantly, setting me on my feet like he’s worried I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I go to rummage through the small pile of clothes I’ve accumulated here and make a face.
“There is nothing in this entire selection that qualifies as comfortable,” I announce.
Paul watches me with an expression I’m starting to recognise as fond confusion. So I walk over to his closet, reach in, and pull out one of his shirts. It’s ridiculously large, but soft and warm and smells like him.
“I’m stealing this,” I tell him.
He swallows, eyes flicking from the shirt to my face, then nods once. “Okay.”
I think I make him nervous. I enjoy that more than I probably should. I turn toward the washroom, toeing off my shoes at last, exhaustion finally catching up to me in a way that feels kind instead of cruel. That’s it. That’s the day. The wedding is done. The planning is over. All of it folded up into one beautiful, ridiculous fairytale that actually got to end happily. Now, somewhere inside the castle, two people are starting the rest of their lives together. I step into the shower and let the water run hot. Bella got her fairytale. She fought for it, bled for it, chose it, and tonight she walked straight into it without flinching. I press my forehead briefly to the cool tile and breathe. If I ever get one, it won’t start like this. It’ll start messier, louder, probably with running and fire. I don’t know what my fairytale looks like yet. I don’t know where it begins or who I am at the start of it. But I know this much now: it’ll be something I survive first. The water keeps falling. Tomorrow will come, and somewhere behind me, my story is still waiting to be told.