Chapter 64 THE COURTHOUSE WEDDING
POV: Selena
The judge cleared his throat while I was still trying to steady my breathing.
I stood in front of Adrian in a small room that smelled faintly of paper and disinfectant, my fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket because I had nothing else to hold on to. What I wanted in that moment was to slow time down. Just a little. Long enough to understand how my life had narrowed to this room, this man, this choice.
The pressure sat everywhere at once. Outside the building, reporters were already gathering. Somewhere across the city, Senator De Luca was fighting through surgery again. And inside my chest, a question kept knocking, not loudly, but persistently.
Was this really happening?
“Are you ready?” the judge asked.
Adrian looked at me before answering. He did not rush. He did not pretend confidence he did not feel. His eyes searched my face the way they always did, like he wanted to know if I was still standing with him.
“Yes,” he said.
I nodded. “Yes.”
Marcus stood near the wall, arms crossed, jaw set like he was guarding us with nothing but willpower. Bella sat on a wooden bench, hands folded, eyes shining in a way that surprised me. No family. No flowers. No dress. Just four people and a choice that felt heavier than anything I had ever carried.
The judge began speaking. Words about commitment and law and intention filled the room, but what I heard was the sound of my own pulse. I watched Adrian’s mouth, the familiar line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that appeared when he was focused.
I thought of my mother in a hospital bed. Of everything she had risked. Of how love in our family had never been quiet or safe.
“Do you, Adrian De Luca, take Selena Alvarez as your lawful wife?” the judge asked.
Adrian did not hesitate.
“I do,” he said. His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it that made my throat tighten. Choice. Not obligation. Not pressure.
“And do you, Selena Alvarez, take Adrian De Luca as your lawful husband?”
I swallowed.
“I do,” I said.
The judge nodded. “You may exchange vows, if you wish.”
Adrian turned toward me fully then. He took my hands, warm and firm, grounding me in the moment.
“I did not imagine my life would look like this,” he said quietly. “I was raised to believe love was something you negotiated. Something you used carefully. Then you walked into my office and refused to play along.”
Bella let out a soft laugh, quickly covering her mouth.
Adrian smiled faintly, then grew serious again. “You chose truth when it cost you safety. You chose your mother when it cost you comfort. You chose me when walking away would have been easier.”
I shook my head. “You make it sound heroic.”
“It is,” he said simply. “I choose you. Today and always. Not because of a will. Not because of fear. Because my life makes sense with you in it.”
For a moment, I could not speak. The room blurred at the edges, not from tears, but from the weight of being seen so clearly.
“I did not grow up believing someone like you would choose someone like me,” I said finally. “I learned early how to survive without asking for help. Then you stood in front of me and refused to let me do it alone.”
I took a breath. “I choose you. Not because the world is watching. Because when it stops, I still want to be here.”
The judge smiled, genuine this time. “By the power vested in me by the District of Columbia, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Adrian leaned forward and kissed me, gentle and certain. No cameras. No applause. Just the quiet certainty of the moment settling into place.
Bella wiped at her eyes. Marcus cleared his throat and looked away.
We signed the papers. Ink scratched across the page. Names became binding.
When it was done, Adrian laced his fingers through mine. “Ready?” he asked.
“For what?” I asked.
He glanced toward the door. “For the world to remind us it does not approve.”
I smiled despite myself. “Let it try.”
The courthouse hallway buzzed with sound as we stepped out. Phones lifted. Voices rose. Someone shouted Adrian’s name. Someone else shouted mine, mispronouncing it.
Security formed a loose barrier as we moved toward the exit. I stayed close to Adrian, my hand firm in his, my awareness stretched thin by the noise and movement.
The doors opened.
Light flooded in. Heat. Shouts.
“Adrian, is this a sham marriage?”
“Selena, are you pregnant?”
“Did the senator force this wedding?”
Adrian raised a hand. “We will make a statement later.”
Then someone screamed.
It was sharp and high, cutting through the noise in a way that froze everything for half a second.
The sound that followed was not confusion or shouting.
It was a crack.
Loud. Final.
Adrian moved before I understood what was happening. He pulled me down and turned, his body shielding mine as we hit the pavement. People scattered. Someone fell. Someone else screamed again.
Security shouted. Guns were drawn. I pressed my face against Adrian’s shoulder, the smell of concrete and fabric filling my senses.
“Stay down,” he said.
I felt the impact before I heard it. A jolt through his body. A sound torn from his throat that did not sound like pain, but shock.
“Adrian,” I said. “Adrian.”
He did not answer.
Hands grabbed me, pulling, shouting. I fought them, reaching for him.
“Adrian!” My voice broke through the chaos.
Then he moved.
“I’m here,” he said, breath rough but present. “I’m here.”
Relief hit hard enough to make my vision swim. He shifted slightly, enough for me to see his face. Pale. Focused. Alive.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Security surrounded us. Someone shouted that the shooter was down. Another voice said something about a perimeter.
Adrian pushed himself up slowly, refusing help until he knew I was standing too.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
I shook my head, hands shaking now that the danger had found shape. “You?”
He looked down at his shoulder. Blood stained the fabric of his suit, dark and spreading.
“It grazed me,” he said, though his jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
I did not believe him. But he was standing. He was breathing. That was enough for the moment.
Paramedics rushed in. Someone tried to pull him toward a stretcher. He resisted until he knew I was beside him, one hand still locked in mine.
Cameras captured everything. The kiss on the courthouse steps had turned into something else entirely.
As they lifted him onto the stretcher, Adrian squeezed my hand.
“Still married,” he said, voice rough.
I laughed, a sound that felt half hysterical, half relieved. “Still married.”
As the ambulance doors closed and the sirens rose again, I stood there, shaking, newly wed and suddenly very aware that love had not made us safer.
It had made us targets.
And this was only the beginning.