Chapter 26
Me and Luther, Just… us. No headlines. No champagne–covered articles. No paparazzi drones trying to fly into my damn courtyard. It was nice, actually, Strange, almost, to have something soft in a world that had been nothing but steel and smoke.
He held my hand outside a gala once–just once–and suddenly we were a tabloid headline.
“Ice Queen CEO and Tech Billionaire: Secret Lovers or Strategic Merge?”
Strategic merge, my ass.
Luther thought it was hilarious. “Guess we’re public now,” he said, half–grinning while scrolling through the chaos on his phone.
“Only thing public is my eye twitch,” I muttered, yanking his jacket over both of us like it could shield us from the world.
He didn’t do some flash mob proposal or gold–plated bullshit. No camera crew. No drones. writing ‘MARRY ME‘ in the sky. No tacky flash.
Just us. A balcony. Two glasses of chilled champagne. A view of the city I bled for.
He handed me the ring like he was handing over part of himself. Looked me in the eyes, and said, “No speeches. Just… stay.”
I laughed. “You just propose or are you asking me to move in?”
He smiled. “Both,”
The wedding was exactly how I wanted it. Hauntingly beautiful. Exclusive. Quietly opulent. No pastel flowers or fluffy doves. Black roses. Storm–gray silk. A quartet playing strings slow enough to feel like memory, Candlelight that flickered like secrets. My parents were there. Happy, Crying.
My dress? Custom Ash & Wren couture, obviously.
Built like armor. Fit like prophecy.
The moment I walked in, there was a hush.
The kind that feels like a throne being forged midair.
When it was time to say vows, I didn’t shake.
I looked him in the eyes–my shadow–turned–partner–and said, clear as steel:
“You found me in the fire. And loved me anyway.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just leaned forward and whispered,
“You made me powerful long before the billions did.”
We kissed under a glass ceiling while the rain poured above us like a blessing that had
12:44 Tue, 24 Jun M
finally shown up late,
After the wedding, I made a choice,
Doctors told me for years it wasn’t possible. That trauma, surgeries, scar tissue, damage… it left things broken. I let it go, quietly. Buried it under empire–building and silence.
Then Luther looked at me one morning over coffee and said, “Let’s try.”
So we did.
Not me–my body had walked too much fire. But a surrogate.
Her name was Evelyn, Sweet, respectful. The kind of woman who walked gently in a world. full of people who stomped,
Luther set up security for her. Bought her a townhouse near us. Hired a chef. Made her prenatal tea every single damn morning like clockwork. Called her every night when he traveled, I never had to ask. He just did,
And when the day came…
I held my breath so hard I nearly passed out.
And then there she was. Nova.
Six pounds. Wide eyes. Fire in her lungs from the first cry,
I named her that because she exploded into our world like a star after ruin.
There’s a letter in my office vault now.
Sealed. Thick paper. Heavy pen.
It starts like this:
“If you’re reading this, it means you’re old enough to understand the war I walked through to give you peace.”
I don’t know when she’ll read it. Maybe when she’s sixteen. Maybe thirty. Maybe never. But
I had to write it. Had to document the blood and the battles and the nights I thought I wouldn’t survive, so she’d never think power was handed down like heirlooms.
I want her to know: her mother earned it.
Every crown. Every scar. Every kiss of peace.
Last week, I stood barefoot on the garden stone while Nova toddled toward me, fists curled like tiny meteors.
Luther stood in the kitchen, mug in hand, watching her like the world itself was walking.
He caught my eyes and smiled.
I didn’t say a word.
I didn’t need to.
Because I’d built empires before.
30.03
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But this one–this soft one, this real one?
This was the only one that mattered.
