Page 66 of The Founder's Power

She laughs and shoves me away. “Yes. Yes, of course, yes!”

She launches into my arms, kissing me like she’s been holding that word in for years.

I put the ring on her finger and kiss her, her fingers tracing the curve of my jaw, mine dancing along the band now nestled against her skin.

My empire didn’t fall. It evolved, and with her by my side, we’re just getting started.

CHAPTER35

DAMIAN

We marry on the kind of day that feels blessed by something bigger than us.

Late summer. Warm without heat. The sky a soft watercolor of pale blue brushed with gold. The kind of light that settles gently on your skin, not like a spotlight—but like an embrace.

The meadow behind our new home is untamed and perfect, just like her. Wildflowers bloom in soft bursts of violet, white, and faded pink. Bees hum lazily near the edge of the tree line. A long linen aisle runner rests atop the grass, gently ruffling in the breeze.

We don’t have an altar.

Instead, there’s a pair of curved wooden chairs beneath a living arch of branches and flowers, woven by hand the day before by Isabelle and her artist friends.

Our guests are seated on vintage wooden benches, each one covered with simple ivory linen and pale green garlands. Just family. Close friends. No media. No flash.

This isn’t a statement.

It’s a promise.

The quartet starts playing something slow and warm, a reimagined version of a classical piece that sounds like it was written just for her.

Isabelle appears at the top of the meadow path, sunlight catching in her hair.

Everything stops, and my heart stumbles.

She wears a silk gown the color of antique cream. The bodice hugs her gently, embroidered with tiny white wildflowers and vines that look like they’ve grown right out of her skin. The sleeves are sheer, brushing her arms like a whisper. The train flows behind her like a sigh.

Her hair is half-up, threaded with tiny gold pins shaped like stars. Her bouquet is a loose, hand-tied bundle of wildflowers, herbs, and vines—unruly, colorful, free.

She meets my eyes and smiles, and I forget how to breathe.

She walks toward me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at, barefoot on the linen runner, the earth beneath her just as sacred as anything we could have built in stone.

When she reaches me, I take both her hands and whisper, “You look like a miracle.”

Her eyes are already glassy. “You look like home.”

The officiant is a close friend of hers, a soft-spoken woman named Evie who once ran a nonprofit and now teaches poetry in the city. She reads a brief piece, something about roots and wings, and we move straight into the vows.

Mine are raw and real, every line wrapped in the humility I had to earn. “I don’t want to own you,” I say. “I want to grow with you. I want to rise with you. I want to spend every day proving that power was never the point. Love was.”

Isabelle’s voice trembles, but she never looks away. “You were once the most unreachable man in the world,” she says. “Now, you’re the man who chooses to reach for me every time, and I will never stop reaching back.”

We exchange rings—hers a thin band of twisted gold that wraps around the engagement ring I gave her in the gallery. Mine is brushed black titanium with a tiny engraving on the inside:For us.

When the officiant says we may kiss, I don’t hesitate. I kiss her with my body, soul, and heart. She’s everything to me, and she deserves all of me always.

* * *

The reception is heldunder a canopy of trees strung with warm light and soft white lanterns. There’s no assigned seating. Just wooden farm tables filled with seasonal food, laughter, stories, and far too much champagne.

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