Emily moved quickly to rally her.
“My lady. The master is waiting.”
“Emily! What do I do? I’m trembling so much! It’s not even my first wedding—why am I this nervous…?”
Emily was not a woman given to smiling easily. But in this moment, she couldn’t help it.
She thought she understood, now, why the master had gone to all this trouble of arranging a second wedding for the woman he loved.
“My lady—try picturing the master in his wedding attire. I happened to get a brief glimpse of him earlier. He’s raised the bar again today.”
“R-Really? ‘Again?'”
“Yes. Again.”
“But how can he possibly get more handsome—it’s already a strain on my heart as it is—!”
Ivelina was entirely unraveling, babbling freely in the way she only did when she had completely lost herself.
“Aren’t you curious, my lady? What it will look like when you step out and see him standing there, waiting for you?”
“He’s raised the bar again…”
“Yes. New record. All-time high.”
“I ‘need’ to see him!”
And with that, a flame of courage kindled itself somewhere in Ivelina’s chest—fed, as always, by her utterly helpless devotion to her husband’s face.
At that same moment, outside, the guests who had just barely caught a glimpse of Ivelina before she vanished were beginning to crane their necks with growing desperation. A few had already risen partway from their seats, unable to help themselves.
Those who hadn’t managed to catch sight of the angelic bride were consumed with wanting to.
Those who had were consumed with wanting to again.
Emily peeked carefully through the gap in the tent and turned back to Ivelina.
“Everyone is waiting for you, my lady.”
Ivelina swallowed.
The drumbeat of her own heart was loud in her ears—but she tightened her grip on the bouquet and drew herself up.
“Let’s go. Emily! I’m counting on you!”
“Of course. I’ll see you to him safely.”
Emily took Ivelina’s fingertips in her own. Through the white lace of Ivelina’s gloves, Emily could feel that her hands were ice-cold.
She held on tighter.
“I…”
“Mm?”
“Congratulations on your wedding, miss. From the bottom of my heart.”
The old form of address.
Ivelina’s clear eyes slowly filled.
It was a name that would no longer be used after today—a word that belonged now only to memory, to the quiet space between the two of them.
“Thank you, Emily. I’m going to live very, very happily.”
“Yes. But please don’t cry just yet. Your makeup will run.”
Emily drew the folded tissue from her pocket and pressed it gently to the corners of Ivelina’s eyes.
She had prepared it in advance, knowing full well her lady’s tendencies.
For a moment the two of them simply looked at each other, and smiled.
“As your personal lady’s maid, I suppose this will be my final duty in that capacity. Allow me to escort you to the count.”
“Yes!”
Hands clasped tightly together, the two of them finally stepped out of the tent.
* * *
“Goodness. Ivelina…”
Damian Florence was in an equally sorry state.
It was nothing like the first wedding—in a different dimension entirely. His daughter’s beauty was as radiant as ever, transcending any comparison, but that wasn’t it exactly.
Today, Ivelina had the face of a bride who was genuinely, wholly happy.
When his only daughter turned to him with a tearful smile practically shining with joy, something hot and unsteady rose inside Damian’s chest.
What surged in him then—above all else—was remorse. A deep and quiet guilt that had no easy name.
Damian took his daughter’s hand from Emily’s and held it carefully, as though it were something that might break.
“Let’s go, then. The duke has been waiting long enough.”
“Mm. Papa, you have to hold me steady—if I trip, my husband will tease me about it for the rest of my life.”
“I know. I promise.”
Ivelina nodded.
As the bride and her father took their place at the head of the wedding aisle, the orchestra shifted—the melody changing to something new.
The bride’s processional was Kael’s surprise for Ivelina. He had contacted the most celebrated composer in the empire directly, commissioning a piece to be played as she walked toward him. It sounded like something from a fairy tale—the music a princess might walk to on the day of her wedding.
And so the father and daughter stood at the threshold of the aisle, and both of them trembled.
“Papa… why is your hand so sweaty?”
Damian’s palm was slick with perspiration.
“I’m—nervous—!”
“You weren’t like this at the capital wedding.”
“I was trembling then too—it was just a different kind of trembling. The ‘furious’ kind.”
“And now?”
“Acute anxiety with a moderate undercurrent of residual fury.”
“Ah…”
Ivelina, already far beyond the reach of reason herself, accepted this without question.
The two of them were sweating through their nerves side by side when the groom, at the far end of the aisle, turned slowly to face them.
The moment Ivelina’s eyes met Kael’s, she turned to stone.
‘Emily was completely right. He’s really—he’s actually—’
It was almost too much to bear.
Kael observed his thoroughly stricken bride, mouth agape, and allowed one corner of his mouth to curve upward.
“And now, please welcome the bride. Miss—you may make your entrance.”
Unlike his own entrance, a hush fell over the guests this time.
It was, in part, because the expression on the bride’s father’s face was deeply somber.
The bride and her father began their walk down the aisle—slow, deliberate, every step stiff with tension. They moved at a pace that would have made a tortoise impatient.
Even so, Ivelina kept glancing nervously to either side. If she looked straight ahead and accidentally met Kael’s eyes, she was quite certain she would stumble.
At last—after a short and yet somehow endless walk—the pair and Kael came to stand facing one another.
Damian did not immediately hand over his daughter’s hand. He drew a quiet breath.
“Ivelina.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. For everything.”
“Suddenly? What do you mean?”
Damian’s abrupt words made Ivelina’s eyes go wide.
That face—still so guileless, still so unknowing. The sight of it made Damian’s throat tighten and ache. The lines worn into his face by years and grief grew damp with what he had no better words for than sorrow—the kind made of regret and of too many silences left too long.
“Forget all the pain your old father has caused you. Let your husband love you well. Do you understand?”
“Papa…?”
“Live long, and live happy. Receive from him all the love I was never able to give you.”
He could see the tears gathering in his daughter’s eyes, bright and trembling—but Damian did not stop.
There was still something that had to be said, in this place, in this moment.
“Be happier than Jacqueline. My daughter—you will be the happiest person in the world.”
And that was when Ivelina broke.
“Papa! How could you say that ‘now’— I’m going to be laughed at by my husband for crying again…!”
Damian spent one last moment on his daughter’s flustered, tearful scold, and then turned his gaze to his son-in-law.
“I entrust my daughter to your care.”
Kael listened quietly.
“I have made her cry many times.”
He said it simply, like a confession spoken to no one in particular.
“Please do not make her cry. Let her live without sorrow. That is the only thing I ask.”
“I understand. I will make her happier than anyone.”
The plainness of the promise made Damian’s eyes sting.
He tilted his head back toward the open sky, refusing to let himself be seen.
“You have my complete trust.”
Damian gave a slow, deep nod.
His hand—still holding his daughter’s—was full of regret, full of things unsaid and chances spent. The hand he held had once been so small, a tiny crumpled thing that fit entirely in his palm. When had it grown like this?
He had been so prepared to be dignified about all of it.
And then five seconds passed, and Damian found he didn’t want to let go.
Kael lifted an eyebrow.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
When Damian still didn’t move—still hovering, still stalling—Kael simply reached over and took Ivelina’s hand for himself.
Damian clicked his tongue softly, made a helpless, resigned expression, and shuffled away scratching the back of his head.
It was not a graceful exit.
As the father of the bride made his somewhat undignified retreat, the dais was left to the bride and groom alone.
Ivelina blinked—and then suddenly became aware of something.
Her hand was soaked through entirely, as if it had been plunged in water.
Wide-eyed, still streaked with tears, she blurted it out:
“Wait—this—’this is my father’s sweat!'”
From somewhere in the gathered crowd, laughter broke out—quietly at first, then everywhere at once.
* * *
