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Six months later

Ethan

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Before the officiant even finishes the sentence, I pull Thalia into my arms, crashing my mouth over hers with everything I’ve kept caged inside me for days.

She spent last night at the Thomas house, and since we landed five days ago, we’ve barely managed to steal a moment alone. I’ve been counting the hours until this celebration ends, until I can finally take her away and have her to myself for an entire week. At this point, I physically can’t stand the distance anymore.

“Finally,” I whisper against her lips, breathless. “My wife. Mine.”

Her eyes shimmer with emotion, tears gathering as she looks up at me with the widest, most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on her face.

Around us, applause erupts—cheers, laughter, happiness spilling freely into the air.

“I’ve been yours from the first moment you allowed me to be, Ethan,” my wife answers, her voice trembling.

We rest our foreheads together for a few seconds, lost in the overwhelming rush of our feelings, and then I kiss her again—consuming, gentle, unhurried—before taking her hand and guiding her toward the celebration.

The wedding takes place in the shared garden of our parents’ New York estate, the same place where Sierra and Nick once said their vows.

Tonight, it looks nothing like an ordinary garden. White pathways curve over the water, leading to a circular platform engraved with delicate patterns, as if the ground itself has been sculpted for this exact moment.

Thousands of white flowers bloom everywhere—arching overhead, cascading like clouds along the edges of the walkways, framing the altar in a soft, almost unreal glow.

Beyond the ceremony space, on the far side of the garden, the reception tables await the guests, set beneath warm lights and surrounded by lush greenery, laughter already drifting from that direction like a promise of the night ahead.

A few hours later, I’m at the bar, watching Thalia from across the garden as she laughs with Sierra and a few of the guys.

There’s very little time left before I take her away. As beautiful as this party is, my patience is running dangerously thin.

“What’s the groom doing at the bar, sulking like he’s suffering?” Zayn asks, dropping onto the stool beside me with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Thalia.

“You know she’s not going anywhere if you look away for a few seconds, right?” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “Unfortunately, I have no idea what she saw in you, but she’s hopelessly in love,” he adds triumphantly, accepting a glass from one of the bartenders.

“What do you want, Zayn?” I ask, finally turning to him.

He grins, amused that he’s managed to pull my attention away from where it seems permanently fixed, and takes a slow sip of whiskey.

“I want to know when you’re leaving,” he says, his tone turning more serious, “so I can head straight to the airport too.”

Since being with Thalia, I’ve started handing over parts of my responsibilities to each of the guys. Surprisingly, none of them mind. They were already heavily involved, but now they’re almost as busy as I am, and no one complains.

“Are you starting the casinos and clubs setup?” I ask, genuinely interested.

We’ve finished the construction on the latest project, and he’s taken over the interior work.

“Yeah. Meeting the designer tomorrow,” he replies.

“Who is he?”

“No idea.”

I turn to him, shocked.

He immediately raises his hands in surrender, laughing.