Chapter 17 - The Westport WeddingSpring returned to Westport with an explosion of white dogwood blossoms and green clover.
There were no flash photography crews, no elite senators, no corporate board members, and no security details. The wedding took place in the backyard of the cedar-shingle cottage, beneath the spreading branches of a weeping willow that caught the golden afternoon light.
The guest list was remarkably brief: a local minister who also taught Sunday art classes, an elderly neighbor who brought homemade strawberry jam, and three very excited flower children.
Miles wore a tiny navy jacket that was slightly too short in the sleeves, clutching a basket of rose petals like it was a classified security dossier. Grace and Sophie wore matching white cotton dresses with blue ribbons in their hair, giggling uncontrollably as they scattered petals across the damp grass.
Elena walked down the makeshift aisle of wooden planks laid over the lawn. She wore a simple, elegant ivory silk dress designed by herself, unadorned by diamonds or designer labels, her chestnut hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
Nathaniel stood by a simple wooden arbor draped in wild lavender and ivy. He wore a simple dark suit, no tie, his gray eyes shining with an unshielded, overwhelming devotion that made the minister smile softly.
When Elena reached him, Nathaniel took her hands in his. They were warm, steady, and real.
"Do you, Nathaniel, take Elena to be your lawful wife, through every storm and every sunrise?" the minister asked.
"I do," Nathaniel said, his voice ringing clear and steady across the quiet garden.
"And do you, Elena, take Nathaniel to be your lawful husband, to build together what no empire can ever buy?"
"I do," Elena smiled, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears.
With a quiet exchange of simple platinum bands—forged from the melted remains of an old Cross family heirloom that Nathaniel had melted down himself—they were pronounced husband and wife.
As Nathaniel leaned down to kiss her, a chorus of enthusiastic cheering erupted from the front row.
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"Can we eat the cake now?" Miles demanded loudly, holding up his empty flower basket as evidence of a job well done.
A wave of genuine, joyous laughter swept through the garden, shattering the last lingering echoes of Manhattan's cold marble towers.
