The wedding day arrived blue and bright, a perfect early-autumn morning. Isabelle stood before the mirror in her wedding dress, her breath catching as she traced the scalloped neckline with trembling fingers. Light streamed through the window, warm and steady, turning the white fabric almost luminescent. Her reflection looked like someone inhabiting a dream she had never dared to imagine for herself.
From the hallway, she heard Michael's soft fussing, followed by Robert's low, soothing murmur — the gentle baritone he used only with their children, soft enough to melt something inside her every time.
She exhaled.
This was her life now. Not fragile, not conditional, but steady, grounded, deeply hers.
Helene appeared in the doorway, breath catching, a hand pressed to her heart. "Ma chérie," she whispered, eyes shining. "You look… stunning"
"Thank you," Isabelle said, smiling. "I can't quite believe it either."
Her mother stepped in to adjust a curl that had slipped from its pin. "I'm so proud," she said softly.
Downstairs, chairs creaked and murmured voices drifted up as guests settled.
Richard stood at the front of the hall, his best man's speech cards already in his pocket, adjusting his tie. He looked unexpectedly nervous; and not because of the wedding.
Helene, momentarily free from her duties, was speaking with the caterer, her posture composed, her smile warm, but tentative. Richard's gaze kept drifting in her direction as if pulled by gravity. He looked away each time she glanced back, then stole another look at her a second later.
When the music began, everything inside her stilled. Becca stepped forward first, scattering petals with theatrical precision, taking her role so seriously that the guests smiled as they watched her, Luke followed, walking slowly, concentrating fiercely on not dropping the rings.
Then Isabelle stepped into the aisle, her arm hooked through her mother's. The hall blurred for a moment, rows of familiar faces softened by tears and smiles, the shimmer of late-morning light, the scent of flowers drifting in the warm air.
"You look radiant," Helene murmured, giving her hand the softest squeeze. "Robert's going to faint."
When she reached Robert, she looked into his eyes; and everything else fell away. They were shining, not with nerves, but with a fullness that made her chest ache. He took her hands as though he'd been waiting his entire life just to do that one simple thing.
"I didn't know it could feel like this," he whispered.
She felt the same.
The ceremony moved around them like a warm current. Words spoken, rings exchanged, hands trembling slightly, not with fear, but with the sheer intensity of the moment. The kiss felt like coming home.
The reception blurred into a warm, glittering wash of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. Michael slept through most of it in Helene's arms, giving Richard every excuse to linger at her side. Every time Isabelle caught a glimpse of them, they were laughing quietly, leaning closer without realising.
"Should we intervene?" she teased Robert as they danced, her cheek resting lightly against his.
"Absolutely not," he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. "We're witnessing history; let the magic happen."
Later, as twilight settled soft and amber across the garden, Isabelle stood with her new husband beneath the fairy lights strung from tree to tree. Their guests talked in small clusters, voices carrying gently on the cool breeze. Someone popped open a bottle of champagne; someone else cheered. It all felt distant, beautiful, like the background hum to the moment that truly mattered, his hand in hers, his heartbeat steady against her palm.
"Married," she whispered.
"Finally," he said, smiling in that soft, undone way she loved. "Finally."
Their honeymoon unfolded like a dream stitched from soft light and lazy mornings. In Paris they wandered hand-in-hand along the Seine, whispering over café tables, letting the city wrap around them like an old, familiar story. In Venice they drifted down green-glass canals while warm twilight brushed the water.
They talked about everything and nothing; their future, the children, the small miracles of the last year. Sometimes, when the world outside was quiet and the curtains billowed with the breeze, Isabelle would rest her head on Robert's chest and feel his soft breathing, his hand warm against her back, and think: this is what home is.
On their final evening, wrapped together on a narrow balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, Robert put his arms around her.
"I've never been this happy," he said quietly.
Isabelle felt the truth of it settle inside her like warmth. "Me neither."
His arm curled around her, holding her close. "This is our life now. You and me and our family."
She smiled as he held her, knowing he was everything she'd ever hoped for — and more she hadn't known she needed.
When they returned home to England, the very first thing they learned, before they'd even unpacked, was that Richard had visited Helene every day while they were away. Every day.
And Helene… had let him.
When Isabelle looked at them together, she wasn't surprised at how well they got on. Not at all.