Camilla's POV...
My life is better than ever before.
I keep saying it to myself, a quiet mantra against the nervous flutter in my stomach. The silk of my wedding dress whispers as I shift by the window, watching early light gild the garden where the ceremony will be.
I'm getting married today.
The thought should be a solid, joyous weight. Instead, it feels like a bird trapped in my ribs. It's because I'm an orphan. There's no father to walk me down the aisle, no mother to fuss with my veil, no childhood home brimming with chaotic, loving relatives. My side of the seating will be… quiet.
A soft knock pulls me from the thought. Sofia slips in, her arms laden with a garment bag and a tray holding two steaming mugs. "Saw you staring into the void," she says, her voice a familiar anchor. "Brought reinforcements. Tea and the something-blue."
She is the sister I never had. Through every stumble and triumph, Sofia has been there—a constant, fierce, and loving presence.
Bran family, too, has wrapped me in a warmth I once only dreamed of. From the first awkward dinner to now, they have chosen to be my family. I dare not forget that. I will not.
"Penny for them?" Sofia asks, hanging the delicate blue lace shawl she'd knitted herself.
"I was just thinking… it's the happiest day of my life. So why does it also feel a little like grief?"
Sofia doesn't offer empty comfort. She simply takes my hand, her grip firm. "It's okay for your heart to hold both, Cami. You're honoring a past by fully stepping into your future. They'd be so proud of the woman you are."
Tears, the good kind, press behind my eyes. She's right.
My thoughts settle, finally. The fluttering quiets, replaced by a deep, steady warmth. This isn't about the family I lost; it's about the family I've found, the one I'm choosing, and the one I'm about to build.
I look at my reflection in the window, a bride framed by dawn. The emptiness has been filled, not erased, but lovingly woven over by new bonds.
Today, I am not an orphan getting married.
I am a woman, surrounded by love, walking toward her forever.
"Okay," I say, squaring my shoulders. A real smile touches my lips for the first time this morning. "Let's do my hair."
Everything was done. My makeup—soft and glowing. My shoes—simple and delicate, like something from a fairy tale. The bouquet in my hands was a cloud of baby's breath and white roses, tied with a silk ribbon.
I looked in the mirror, and my breath caught.
I looked… so different. Not in a bold or daring way, but like the best version of myself.
My cheeks were flushed with happiness, my eyes bright and clear. There was a new softness in my reflection, a gentle maturity I'd never seen before. I didn't only look sexy—I looked beautiful.
Truly, deeply beautiful.
And the white dress… oh, the dress.
It didn't change me. It revealed me. The lace sleeves, the modest neckline, the skirt that flowed like fresh snowfall—it made me feel precious. Protected.
Pure in a way that had nothing to do with inexperience and everything to do with hope.
I didn't see an orphan in the mirror.
I saw a bride.
My heart felt so full it ached.
Sofia slipped into the room, her eyes already shining. She didn't say anything at first, just pressed a hand to her mouth. Then she smiled, tears welling. "Oh, Camilla," she whispered. "You look… like a dream. A real-life dream."
I turned slowly, the fabric whispering. "Do I look… like I belong in it?" I asked, my voice small.
"You don't belong in it, my love," she said, coming to straighten my veil with tender hands. "It belongs to you."
And just like that, the last thread of doubt dissolved. This wasn't a costume. This was my truth.
Today, wrapped in white and surrounded by love, I was exactly where I was meant to be—beautiful, innocent, and ready.
I walked slowly to the aisle, every eye on me.
My heart beat harder than it ever had—a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had practiced this walk for over a week: the pace, the posture, the smile. But now, with the soft organ music humming in the air, my feet felt heavy, my breath too light.
I didn't know why I was so scared. The wedding wasn't large—just the Hart family, Sofia, and the priest. No crowded pews, no sea of strangers. Just the people who mattered most.
Yet their gazes felt like warmth and weight all at once. Mr. Hart's proud, fatherly nod. Mrs. Hart dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Sofia standing near the front, smiling through her own quiet tears. And at the end of the aisle… Bran.
I believe a wedding doesn't have to be big to be a wedding. It doesn't need hundreds of guests or a cathedral. It just needs truth. It needs this: the people who love you, witnessing you choose love.
One step. Then another.
My veil trembled slightly with each movement. The flowers in my hand were a sweet, living weight.
And then I looked up—past the nerves, past the pulse in my ears—and met his eyes.
Everything stilled.
The fear didn't vanish, but it changed. It became part of the moment, part of the sacred, shaking joy of it all. This was real. This was mine.
I reached the altar.
And when I took it, I knew—this was enough. More than enough.
This was everything.
Everything to me...
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Bran watched Camilla walk toward him, and his heart did two things at once: it swelled, and it stumbled.
She was a vision. Not just beautiful—luminous. The kind of light you build a life around. His fingers tightened at his sides, the fabric of his suit suddenly too stiff, too close.
The priest smiled warmly as they both stepped forward. Camilla's hand found his, cool and steady. His own felt too warm, pulse ticking visibly at his wrist.
I love you so much,Camilla.
He thought, the words a desperate, silent echo beneath the priest's opening blessings. But how can I tell you I have cardiophobia?
The fear wasn't of love. It was of his own heart—the very organ that beat her name.
The doctor's words still lingered: A heightened, often debilitating awareness of your own heartbeat. Anxiety about your heart's function. It made a flutter feel like a failure, a skipped beat like a countdown.
And here, now, with her hand in his, his heart was a wild, pounding thing. It thrummed in his ears, a frantic drum beneath the solemn music. Was it love? Was it fear? Was it a warning?
Camilla glanced up at him, her eyes soft with questioning joy. She squeezed his hand.
She thinks it's just nerves, he realized.
She doesn't know my heart is a traitor.
The priest was speaking of lifelong vows, of health and sickness. Bran's throat tightened. Sickness. His was invisible, a ghost in his own chest. How could he promise to be her strength when his own body whispered threats?
But then she leaned in, just slightly, her shoulder brushing his. A silent I'm here.
And something in his frantic rhythm calmed. Not the beat—but the fear around it.
This was Camilla. She had faced a life of loneliness and built a family from found pieces. If anyone could understand a silent, internal struggle… it was her.
The truth sat on his tongue, bitter and necessary.
Not now. But soon. Tonight, after the last toast was made, he would tell her. He would trust her with the broken, fearful part of him, just as she had trusted him with her whole, brave heart.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles gently. A promise within a promise.
For now, he let his heartbeat be just that—a heartbeat. The sound of a man stepping toward the rest of his life, terrified, and choosing to go anyway.
But he loved her.
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To be continued...