Chapter 2 - The Vows Written in Fire
The minister took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he straightened his robe. He looked at Julian, then at me, standing before him with my bare head glowing under the cathedral’s golden stained glass, draped in my husband-to-be’s tuxedo jacket.
“Where were we?” the minister asked softly, his voice echoing through the quiet cavern of the church.
“We were at the part where I promise my life to her,” Julian said. He didn't hesitate. He took both of my hands in his, leaning close so only I could hear the initial tremor in his voice before it turned to pure steel. “In sickness and in health. In front of God, and in front of everyone who thought love was something you discard when the road gets steep.”
A collective intake of breath swept through the pews.
Julian turned slightly toward the remaining guests, his eyes dark with an absolute conviction that commanded the room. “My mother thought she was exposing a weakness today. She thought she was showing you someone who is broken. But look at her. Look at my wife. She has faced an enemy that eats people alive, and she walked down this aisle on her own two feet. There is no woman more beautiful, more dignified, or more powerful in this room or any other.”
Tears spilled over my eyelashes, burning hot against my cheeks, but I did not look down. I held his gaze. I raised my hand, gently cupping his cheek, my thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
“Julian,” I whispered, my voice carrying into the silent hall. “I didn't choose to be sick. But if being sick was the price I had to pay to learn the true depth of your heart, I would pay it ten times over. I give you my past, my present, and every single morning I am given on this earth.”
The minister cleared his throat, wiping his own eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Julian, you may kiss your bride.”
Julian leaned down, wrapping his arms securely around my waist, lifting me slightly off my feet as he pressed his lips to mine. It wasn't a tentative kiss born of pity; it was fierce, passionate, and real.
The silence of the cathedral broke.
It started with my brother, Adrian, who slammed his hands together in a thunderous clap, his face wet with tears. Then Julian’s cousins joined in. Within seconds, the entire church erupted into a standing ovation. People were standing on the pews, wiping tears, cheering so loudly the stained glass seemed to vibrate. The organist, catching the surge of emotion, slammed his hands onto the keys, unleashing a triumphant processional march that shook the very foundation of the building.
Julian took my hand, locked his fingers into mine, and together we walked down the aisle.
We walked past the dropped flowers, past the torn veil lying near the front row, and straight out the heavy oak doors into the bright afternoon sun.
Outside, the air was crisp and clear. But as we stepped onto the stone steps of the cathedral, I saw the flashes.
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Two street photographers and a passerby with a smartphone were standing at the bottom of the stairs, recording everything. They had caught Seraphina being escorted out minutes earlier, red-faced and screaming, and now they caught the image of Julian in his white shirt and suspenders, holding the hand of his bald, radiant bride wearing his tuxedo jacket.
I didn't hide. I held Julian’s hand tighter, lifted my chin, and smiled into the sun.
