MR. SERIOUS | ✔️

EPILOGUE

THE WEDDING

The sun rose slow and golden over the French Riviera, casting its light like honey over the rolling waves of the Mediterranean. Nice was still quiet, the world just beginning to stretch awake, but in one particular seaside villa perched along the cliffs, the day had already begun. The press, who'd caught wind of the engagement months ago, were already swarming around the outskirts of the property, cameras flashing at any flicker of movement. But Rafe's top security team held the perimeter like a fortress, no one was getting through. Not today. Not when everything had to be perfect.

Aurora's bridal suite was a palace of white and gold. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled sunlight across the marble floors, silk curtains fluttered in the sea breeze, and soft music drifted in the background, barely heard over the hum of champagne flutes and girl talk. The scent of vanilla candles, eucalyptus-spritzed florals, and sea salt mingled in the air, calming but electric, like the entire room was holding its breath.

Aurora sat at the center of it all, poised in front of an ornate French-style vanity, bathed in golden morning light. Her white satin robe shimmered, the word Bride spelled across the back in tiny hand-sewn pearls that caught the light every time she moved. Her hair was halfway done, a cascade of golden curls being gently coaxed into place by a professional stylist, who worked with expert precision to pin the veil into her hair. The veil, long and sheer, featured delicate lace flowers stitched with silver thread, fluttering softly like real petals every time she turned her head.

It was barely 7 a.m., but the room was already alive with energy, makeup artists dusting highlighter, hairstylists curling and pinning, assistants delivering trays of canapés and fresh fruit. Everyone had a task. Everyone had a glass of something sparkling.

Zara sat on a white velvet chaise in the corner, already half-ready in her maid of honour gown, sipping champagne like it was water and watching the controlled chaos with a serene little smile, the eye of the storm, effortlessly cool.

Alina was perched at the breakfast bar with a glass of rosé, supervising a line of lipstick shades being laid out by her artist like it was a military operation. "No coral tones," she declared. "I want warm pink, but not too pink. Chic, but not basic."

Isla sat cross-legged on the giant four-poster bed, scrolling through Pinterest mood boards on her iPad, tossing out random flower names and snapping pictures of everyone mid-glam. Her own stylist was attempting to curl a stubborn piece of hair that refused to cooperate, while Isla scrolled one-handed and nibbled on a strawberry.

Liv, of course, was arguing with her stylist. "No, trust me," she said, waving a hand. "I don't do heavy eye makeup. We're not going to Coachella. It's a wedding. Make me glowy, not smoky."

In the middle of it all, Aurora looked like a painting. Nervous, glowing, trying very hard not to cry before the mascara even hit her lashes.

"Rory," Zara said, finally standing and handing her a tall flute of mimosa with a sugared rim. "Sip. Breathe. Smile. Repeat."

Aurora took the glass with slightly shaky hands. "I feel like I'm gonna combust."

"Not before the vows, please," Alina said flatly from the other side of the room.

"I'm serious," Aurora said, turning wide-eyed to Zara. "What if I trip? What if I cry? What if I...God forbid..faint? I know I'm dramatic, but fainting? That's so 1800s."

"You are dramatic," Isla chimed in sweetly, not looking up from her iPad. "That's why we love you."

"Speak for yourself," Liv muttered, digging through a tray of earrings. "If you pass out, I'm taking your slice of cake. No takebacks."