Emma Rosewood smoothed her thrift-store dress for the hundredth time as she stepped into the Grandmore Hotel’s crystal ballroom.

In her apartment’s dim light, the champagne-colored fabric had looked elegant, almost daring. Here, under chandeliers that glittered like frozen fireworks and among a sea of designer gowns that whispered money with every movement, Emma felt like a dandelion planted in a rose garden, trying to pretend she belonged in the bouquet.

Her best friend Khloe had begged her to be her plus-one, swearing it would be fun, swearing it would be “good for Emma” to get out of her routine. And then, the moment they arrived, Khloe had vanished, chasing after the wedding photographer with the hunger of someone who lived for social proof.

Emma held her small clutch tighter, as if it could keep her from dissolving into the marble floor.

The ballroom shimmered with a thousand fairy lights. Round tables draped in ivory silk filled the room, each centerpiece a masterpiece of white orchids and cascading pearls. There was laughter and clinking glasses, the sound of money celebrating itself. Emma’s eyes flicked down to the elegant card in her hand.

“Table 7,” she whispered.

Of course.

Table 7 sat in the back corner, half hidden behind a towering floral arrangement that looked like it had its own security detail. It was the table for overflow guests, the people who didn’t fit neatly into the family tree, the mysterious strangers, the plus-ones no one knew what to do with.

Emma slid into her chair and tried to look like she had somewhere to be, someone to talk to, a reason to exist in a room built for people who never questioned their right to take up space.

The seat beside her remained empty while the rest of the table filled with chattering strangers. Conversations drifted over her like perfume.

“My Maldives trip was life-changing…”

“The new membership at the club is impossible to get…”

“His vineyard is only for private tastings…”

Emma poked at her salad, chewing slowly, pretending the lettuce was fascinating. At the head table, the bride and groom glowed under attention, wrapped in their own fairy tale. Emma watched them with something that wasn’t envy exactly, more like distance. Not from love, but from certainty.

She didn’t mind being ordinary. She minded being invisible.

“Is this seat taken?”

The deep voice cut through her thoughts like a warm hand reaching into cold water.

Emma looked up and forgot how to breathe.

Standing beside her was possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen in real life. Tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly put together in a black tuxedo that emphasized an athletic build. Dark hair styled just messy enough to look effortless. And eyes, an unusual shade of green, the kind that made you wonder what secrets they’d learned to keep.

“No,” Emma managed, gesturing to the empty chair. “Please. It’s all yours.”

He slid into the seat with fluid grace. Emma caught a hint of expensive cologne mixed with something clean and distinctly masculine, like cedar and winter air.

“Sebastian Blackwood,” he said, extending his hand. “And you are?”

“Emma Rosewood,” she replied, shaking his hand and trying to ignore the electric jolt that ran up her arm at the contact.

It startled her, not because she was naïve, but because she’d forgotten what it felt like to be noticed without being evaluated. Most attention had always come with a hidden calculation.

“I’m here with my friend Khloe,” Emma added. “Though she seems to have disappeared.”

Sebastian smiled, warm and genuine. Not the practiced smile she’d seen on other wealthy-looking guests, the one that held teeth but no truth.

“Ah,” he said. “The classic wedding abandonment.”

Emma laughed, a small sound she didn’t expect to make in this room. “Sounds terrifying.”

“You have no idea,” Sebastian said, eyes crinkling with humor. “The bride’s grandmother has been trying to set me up with her granddaughter all night. She cornered me during cocktails and started showing me baby photos.”

Emma’s laughter came easier this time. “That’s not flirting. That’s a hostage situation.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian said, lifting his champagne glass. “So, Emma Rosewood, what brings you to this circus besides a disappearing friend?”

“Khloe works with the bride,” Emma admitted. “I’m just the plus-one who doesn’t know anyone.”

“You know me now,” Sebastian said, raising his glass. “To new friendships and surviving wedding receptions.”

Emma clinked her glass to his, surprised by how natural it felt. “To surviving.”

As the evening unfolded, the ballroom faded into a soft blur around them. Emma found herself completely absorbed in Sebastian in a way that felt dangerous, not because he was charming, but because he listened like he actually cared about the answers.

He asked genuine questions. He didn’t cut in with his own story after hers, the way most people did, turning conversation into a competition for attention. He treated her words like they mattered.

When she mentioned her job as a florist, his expression shifted, as if something bright had been turned on behind his eyes.

“You create beauty for a living,” he said. “That must be incredibly fulfilling.”

Emma blinked. “It is.”

Most people reacted to her job with polite interest or mild dismissal. Like flowers were a hobby, not work. Like romance belonged to people with money and florists were just the background.

“It’s not just arranging flowers,” she continued, surprised by her own eagerness. “There’s color theory. Symbolism. You’re translating emotions into something people can hold in their hands. Grief, celebration, apology, hope. You have to understand what people can’t say and build it with petals.”

Sebastian leaned forward slightly. “Tell me more.”

And Emma did.

For the next hour, she talked more than she had in months. She told him about her favorite flowers, the way peonies opened like a secret being revealed. The patience required for lilies. The arrogance of orchids. She told him about the most challenging arrangements, about brides who cried over shade differences, about widows who couldn’t speak but pointed to a single white rose and nodded like it contained an entire marriage.

She told him, quietly, about her dream of opening her own shop someday. A real shop. One with windows that caught morning light. One with a chalkboard sign that made people smile.

Sebastian listened like her dream was a real thing, not a cute idea.

He shared stories too, though he was vague about his own work. He mentioned business consulting, helping companies grow. The words were neat and neutral, like a shirt buttoned all the way up.

When the band began playing slower songs, couples drifted onto the dance floor. Emma watched them with a mixture of longing and contentment. She had never been much of a dancer. But sitting with Sebastian made her feel like she belonged somewhere, even if it was only at Table 7.

“For the first time in years,” Sebastian said softly, as if speaking the thought she didn’t know she was broadcasting, “would you like to dance?”

Emma hesitated. “I should warn you, I’m not very good at this.”

“Lucky for you I am,” he said with a grin, standing and offering his hand. “Trust me.”

Against her better judgment, Emma placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

The moment his arm encircled her waist, the room tilted into something unreal. Sebastian moved with confident grace, guiding her through steps so naturally she forgot her nervousness. His hand was warm at her back, steady and respectful. He didn’t grip. He didn’t pull. He invited.

Emma felt herself relax into the rhythm.

“You’re full of surprises, Emma Rosewood,” Sebastian murmured, his breath warm near her ear.

“So are you, Sebastian Blackwood,” she replied, looking up into those green eyes. She didn’t mean for her voice to soften the way it did, but it happened anyway, slipping out like truth.

When the song ended, Emma noticed other guests watching them. A few women whispered behind their hands, glancing in Sebastian’s direction with something like recognition. Not simply admiration, but reverence.

Emma’s unease returned like a small cold draft.

Back at the table, she tried to shake it off. But curiosity was a stubborn thing.

“What do you really do for work?” Emma asked.

Sebastian paused, his hand still lightly holding hers as if he hadn’t noticed he never let go. His expression shifted, and for a moment the confident humor dimmed, revealing something more careful underneath.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“Try me.”

He looked around the ballroom, then back at her, lowering his voice.

“I run a few companies,” he said. “Technology mostly. Nothing too exciting.”

Nothing too exciting.

Emma glanced at his wrist and noticed an expensive watch she hadn’t registered before. The kind you didn’t buy as jewelry. The kind you bought as a statement. She also noticed the way the waitstaff treated him with extra deference, the way people’s eyes followed him like he was a comet passing through.

“Are you someone famous?” she asked quietly.

Sebastian’s expression turned serious. “Would it matter if I were?”

The question hung between them like a suspended chandelier. Beautiful, heavy, ready to fall if the ceiling cracked.

Emma studied him. For the first time, she saw vulnerability behind the polished edges.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess it would depend on what kind of famous.”

“It’s the kind,” Sebastian said softly, “that makes people treat you differently. The kind that makes genuine connections nearly impossible.”

Something about the way he said it made Emma’s chest tighten. It wasn’t arrogance. It was exhaustion.

The reception wound down. Emma found herself reluctant to leave. The evening had been magical in a way she hadn’t expected. Sebastian made her feel seen. Appreciated. Interesting. Not like a plus-one placed at the back of a room.

“I should probably find Khloe,” Emma said reluctantly as the last dance ended.

“Of course,” Sebastian said, but he made no move to leave. His gaze held hers with an intensity that made her heart trip over itself. “Emma, I’d like to see you again. Outside of all this.” He gestured around the ballroom, the money, the performance. “Just… you.”

Emma’s pulse raced. “I’d like that too.”

Sebastian pulled out his phone. “May I have your number?”

As Emma gave him her contact, she noticed his phone was the latest model, sleek and expensive. Everything about Sebastian whispered wealth and sophistication. Everything about her screamed ordinary. But the way he looked at her made her feel anything but ordinary.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Sebastian promised, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her phone back.

“Tomorrow,” Emma echoed.

As she walked away to find Khloe, Emma felt his eyes on her. She turned back once and saw him standing by Table 7, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

And in that moment, she realized whatever Sebastian Blackwood’s secrets were, she was already in too deep to walk away cleanly.

Emma woke the next morning with butterflies tangled in her stomach and Sebastian’s business card on her nightstand. She didn’t remember placing it there. She barely remembered sleeping.

Her tiny apartment above a coffee shop looked the same, but the morning light felt brighter, as if the world had shifted slightly in its axis overnight.

Her phone rang at exactly 10:00 a.m.

“Good morning, Emma,” Sebastian said, voice warm. She could hear the smile in his words. “I hope you slept better than I did.”

“I’m not sure I slept at all,” Emma admitted, curling up in her favorite chair. “Last night feels like a dream.”

“Then let me prove it was real,” he said. “Have lunch with me today.”

Emma’s heart raced. “I’d love to, but I have work. Saturdays are our busiest at the flower shop.”

“What time do you finish?”

“Around six.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casually.”

Emma spent the entire day arranging bouquets while her mind wandered to green eyes and the way Sebastian had looked at her like she was something rare. Her coworker Lily noticed immediately.

“You’re glowing,” Lily said, watching Emma hum while she worked on a wedding arrangement. “Who is he?”

“Someone I met last night,” Emma admitted, unable to suppress her smile. “Someone… incredible.”

At seven sharp, a sleek black car pulled up outside Rosewood Flowers.

Emma locked up quickly, smoothing her simple sundress and hoping she looked appropriate for whatever Sebastian had planned. But when she reached the car, it wasn’t Sebastian behind the wheel.

“Miss Rosewood,” the driver said politely. “I’m Thomas. Mr. Blackwood’s driver. He’s waiting for you.”

Emma’s steps faltered.

Driver.

She slid into the back seat where Sebastian sat with that same warm smile, but now she noticed details she’d missed before. The luxury leather interior. The subtle scent of money. The quiet hum of a machine built for comfort.

Sebastian wore jeans and a casual button-down, but even his casual clothes fit like they had been designed to surrender politely to his body.

“You have a driver,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I do,” Sebastian replied simply. “Is that a problem?”

“I’m just trying to figure out who you really are.”

Sebastian took her hand. “I’m the same person who sat with you at Table 7 last night. Everything else is just details.”

Thomas drove them through the city into an area Emma rarely visited, where skyscrapers reached toward the clouds and everything gleamed with expensive certainty. They stopped in front of a glass tower that seemed to pierce the sky.

“This is where I live,” Sebastian said.

They rode the elevator to the top floor. When the doors opened directly into a penthouse, Emma’s breath caught. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city like it belonged to him. The furniture looked like art. Even the silence felt curated.

Sebastian poured two glasses of wine and handed her one.

“I told you I run a few companies,” he said.

“Few companies,” Emma repeated, voice thin.

“In this building,” she added, then immediately felt stupid. Like a small fish pointing out the ocean.

Sebastian watched her carefully. “Actually… I own this building. And several others.”

Emma set her wine down with shaking hands. “You own buildings. Plural.”

Sebastian’s confidence cracked just enough to show something human.

“Emma,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I should have been more upfront. My name is Sebastian Blackwood. Blackwood Technologies, Blackwood Industries, Blackwood Real Estate. I’ve been fortunate in business.”

“Fortunate?” Emma echoed, staring at him. “You’re not just wealthy. You’re one of those billionaires I read about in magazines.”

“The number isn’t important,” Sebastian said quietly. “What’s important is… I’ve never met anyone who made me want to be just Sebastian. Not the CEO. Not the heir. Not the brand. Just me.”

Emma walked to the window and stared down at the city, trying to calm the spinning in her head.

“This is why people were staring at you last night,” she said. “Why the waiters treated you like royalty.”

“Yes,” Sebastian admitted.

“And you didn’t think to mention this?”

He stepped closer, but didn’t touch her. He gave her space, which somehow hurt more because it was considerate.

“I’ve learned money changes how people see me,” he said. “I wanted you to know me first.”

Emma turned to face him. “I’m a florist, Sebastian. I live in a studio above a coffee shop. I buy my clothes at thrift stores. We live in completely different worlds.”

“Do we?” he asked, green eyes intense. “Because last night, sitting at that table, talking to you, I felt more at home than I have in years.”

Before Emma could respond, the elevator chimed and a woman stepped out.

She was stunning in that effortless way that came with excellent genes and unlimited resources. Auburn hair perfectly styled. Designer clothes impeccable. Her confidence fit her like it had been tailored.

“Sebastian,” she said. “You missed dinner with the Harringtons.”

Then she noticed Emma.

“Oh,” she added smoothly. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

“Victoria,” Sebastian said, voice tight. “This is Emma Rosewood. Emma, my sister, Victoria.”

Victoria’s smile was polite but assessing, the way a jeweler examines something delicate and decides whether it’s real.

“You’ve heard of me?” Emma asked, surprised at her own bluntness.

Victoria’s expression warmed slightly. “Sebastian hasn’t stopped talking about you since last night. Which is unprecedented, by the way.”

“Victoria,” Sebastian warned.

“What?” Victoria shrugged. “True.”

Then she turned back to Emma. “He canceled three meetings today because he couldn’t concentrate. Our mother is beside herself.”

Heat rose in Emma’s cheeks. She suddenly felt like she’d wandered onto a stage where everyone knew their lines except her.

“I should probably go,” Emma said, reaching for her purse.

“No,” Sebastian said quickly, reaching for her hand. “Stay, please.”

Emma looked between him and Victoria, feeling the weight of their world press against her ribs.

“I have an early morning tomorrow,” she said quietly, trying to salvage dignity. “And you clearly have family obligations.”

“Emma,” Sebastian said softly, pleading. “Don’t let this scare you away. Yes, I have money. Yes, my life is complicated. But what I feel for you is real.”

Emma’s throat tightened. She believed him. And that was the problem.

Because believing him meant stepping onto a bridge that might collapse under the weight of difference.

“I need time,” she said. “To think.”

Sebastian nodded, though disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Of course. Thomas will drive you home.”

On the ride back, Emma’s mind churned.

Sebastian Blackwood wasn’t just rich. He was power with a heartbeat. He moved in circles she didn’t understand. She remembered the guests at the wedding watching him like gravity. She remembered the way he listened when she talked about flowers, the genuine interest in his eyes, the way he held her on the dance floor like she was precious.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from Sebastian: I know this is overwhelming. Take all the time you need, but please don’t disappear.

Emma stared at the message for a long time before responding.

I won’t disappear. But I need to understand what this means.

Three days passed before Emma called him back.

Three days of researching Sebastian online, seeing photos of him at charity galas and business events, always impeccably dressed, always surrounded by people who looked like they’d never worried about rent.

Three days of wondering if she was crazy to consider this.

“Want to see you again,” she said when he answered.

“Anything,” Sebastian replied immediately.

“I want to know who you really are,” Emma said. “Not the public version. Not the careful answers.”

A pause.

Then Sebastian’s voice softened. “Then let me show you.”

He invited her away for the weekend.

“No press. No obligations. No interruptions. Just us.”

This time, he picked her up himself. No driver. No luxury car. A modest sedan.

Jeans. A simple T-shirt.

For the first time since the wedding, he looked like just a man.

They drove two hours north to a small cabin by a lake, rustic and quiet, the kind of place that didn’t care who you were. The air smelled like pine and cold water.

“I bought this place when I needed somewhere to think,” Sebastian explained. “No internet. No cell service. No connections to the outside world.”

The weekend unfolded like a soft dream.

They cooked simple meals together, Sebastian admitting he was hopeless in the kitchen but determined to try. He burned eggs and made a face like he’d offended the chickens personally. Emma laughed until her stomach hurt.

They hiked forest trails. Sebastian told her about his childhood, about the pressure of living up to the Blackwood legacy, about the loneliness that came with success.

“I never wanted the spotlight,” he admitted as they sat on the dock watching sunset stain the water gold. “I fell into technology because I loved solving problems. Then it grew into something bigger than I ever imagined.”

“Do you regret it?” Emma asked, curled against his side.

Sebastian stared at the lake for a long moment. “I regret how isolated it made me. I regret that I stopped trusting people’s motives. I regret that I became suspicious of every friendship, every relationship.” He turned to her, eyes steady. “But not this. Not you.”

He cupped her cheek, thumb gentle against her skin.

“With you,” he said, “I remember what it feels like to be human instead of a brand.”

That night, under a blanket of stars, Emma realized she was falling in love with Sebastian Blackwood.

Not the billionaire.

Not the mogul.

The man who admitted he was afraid of thunder. Who sang off-key while making coffee. Who looked at her like she held answers he’d been searching for, not because she was special in the world’s eyes, but because she was special to him.

When they returned to the city, Emma knew there was no going back.

But loving him meant stepping into his world.

And his world had sharp corners.

The first test came sooner than Emma expected.

“I have a charity gala this Friday,” Sebastian said over dinner in a quiet restaurant tucked away from prying eyes. “It’s for childhood literacy, something I care deeply about. I’d like you to come with me.”

Emma’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

“A gala,” she repeated, hearing paparazzi and judgment in the syllables.

“Yes,” Sebastian said firmly. “With me. That’s the only part that matters.”

“Sebastian, I don’t have anything to wear. I don’t know how to act at those things. I’ll embarrass you.”

Sebastian reached across the table and took her hand. “Emma, look at me. You could never embarrass me.”

She swallowed. “I’m not from your world.”

“I’m not asking you to be,” he said. “But if you’re not ready, I understand.”

Emma thought about the cabin. About the dock. About the way he’d held her fear gently instead of trying to crush it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “But you might have to hold my hand the entire time.”

Sebastian smiled, relief softening his face. “I was planning on it anyway.”

The night of the gala, Emma stood before her mirror and hardly recognized herself. Sebastian had sent a stylist with three gowns. Emma chose a midnight blue dress that made her feel elegant without screaming for attention.

When Sebastian saw her, the look in his eyes made all her nervousness worth it.

“You’re breathtaking,” he said quietly, offering his arm.

The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum, its grand halls filled with the city’s elite. Emma felt eyes on them as they entered, whispers following like curious smoke.

Sebastian leaned close. “Just breathe,” he murmured. “You belong here because you’re with me.”

Throughout the evening, he never left her side. He introduced her with genuine pride. He didn’t apologize for her, didn’t try to inflate her background, didn’t dress her story in gold to make it acceptable.

When people asked about her work, he listened with the same attention he gave discussions of million-dollar deals. Emma found herself talking about flowers to elderly donors like she was telling them secrets, making them laugh with stories about customers who cried over roses because grief still wanted beauty.

Later, Victoria found Sebastian by the bar. Emma was across the room, charming a group of donors with the language of flowers.

“You’re different with her,” Victoria observed.

“Different how?”

“Happy,” Victoria said simply. “Relaxed. Like yourself instead of the Sebastian Blackwood everyone expects.”

Sebastian watched Emma laugh, her face glowing with warmth. “She makes me remember who I wanted to be before I became who I thought I had to be.”

Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “Good for you.”

Then, quieter: “But are you good for her?”

The question followed Sebastian like a shadow the rest of the night.

The next week, Sebastian insisted on seeing Emma’s world.

She brought him to Rosewood Flowers on a busy Saturday. Lily leaned on the counter and eyed him like she was judging the ripeness of a fruit.

“So,” Lily said, grinning, “you’re the mysterious man who’s had our Emma floating on clouds.”

Sebastian didn’t bristle. He laughed and rolled up his sleeves, helping arrange flowers. His large hands were surprisingly gentle with delicate stems. He complimented elderly customers and listened patiently to a little girl explaining why she needed pink roses for her grandmother because “pink is the color of hugs.”

Emma watched him and felt something soften.

“You’re full of surprises,” she said when they closed up.

“I like your life,” Sebastian admitted. “It’s real in a way mine rarely is.”

That night, Emma took him to her favorite hole-in-the-wall pizza place. The owner knew everyone’s order by heart and called Emma “kiddo” like she was still twelve.

Sebastian ate greasy pizza, played arcade games, and laughed so freely Emma realized she’d never seen him laugh without the weight of being watched.

“This is who you really are,” Emma said as they walked home, fingers intertwined.

“This is who I am with you,” Sebastian corrected. “You bring out the best parts of me.”

Not everyone approved.

After a board meeting, a business partner named Richard cornered Sebastian.

“I need to talk to you about this florist,” Richard said, voice sharp with entitlement.

“Her name is Emma,” Sebastian replied.

“Fine. Emma. The press is starting to notice. There are photos of you two together. Speculation.” Richard’s eyes narrowed. “This could affect your image.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “My personal life is not up for discussion.”

“Everything about you affects the company. You know that.” Richard leaned in. “What happens when this runs its course? What happens to your reputation when it ends?”

“It’s not going to end,” Sebastian said, voice low.

Richard scoffed. “You’ve known her for a month. Be practical. She’s not from our world. The differences will tear you apart.”

Sebastian’s eyes hardened. “The only thing that tears people apart is treating love like a transaction.”

Richard walked away shaking his head, but the damage was done.

Because Richard’s words were not entirely wrong.

The differences were real.

Money was not just money. It was power, attention, expectation. It was the way people would assume Emma was a trophy or a mistake. It was the way Emma would constantly wonder if she was enough.

Sebastian, haunted by Victoria’s question, began to move differently. Not with fear, but with intention. He didn’t try to squeeze Emma into his world. He tried to build a bridge between worlds, plank by plank.

And Emma, slowly, began to believe she could walk across it without losing herself.

Six months after the wedding where they met, Sebastian knew he couldn’t imagine his life without Emma.

He planned the proposal carefully, wanting it perfect but personal. He chose the cabin by the lake, the place where he had been simply Sebastian, where Emma had loved him without needing proof.

Emma thought they were going for another quiet weekend getaway.

But when Sebastian led her to the dock at sunset, she stopped short.

The dock had been transformed. Hundreds of twinkling lights lined the edges. White roses surrounded the boards like winter snow caught in bloom. The air smelled like pine and possibility.

“Emma,” Sebastian said, voice thick, dropping to one knee.

Emma’s hands flew to her mouth. Tears rose so quickly she felt betrayed by her own emotions.

“Six months ago,” Sebastian said, “I was sitting alone at a wedding, going through the motions of my life. Then you walked in and everything changed.” He swallowed, eyes shining. “You make me want to be the man I see reflected in your eyes. You make me believe in love, in partnership, in building something beautiful together.”

He opened a velvet box revealing a ring that was stunning but not loud, elegant like a promise meant to be lived in, not displayed.

“Will you marry me?” Sebastian asked. “Not as a headline. Not as a brand. As my person.”

Emma’s voice trembled. “Yes,” she whispered.

Then louder, with laughter mixed into the tears: “Yes. Of course yes.”

As Sebastian slipped the ring onto her finger, Emma realized fairy tales could come true.

But only when two people were brave enough to love each other exactly as they were.

A year later, Emma stood in the same chapel where she’d attended the fateful wedding.

But this time, she wasn’t sitting alone at Table 7.

This time, she was the bride.

She walked down the aisle in a simple, elegant gown, toward the man who had seen her when she thought she was invisible.

Sebastian waited at the altar, eyes never leaving her face. Victoria stood as maid of honor, no longer assessing, but smiling like she’d witnessed a miracle she once doubted was possible.

Lily and the Rosewood Flowers staff filled the front rows, beaming with pride. Emma’s hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the unbelievable weight of being loved without condition.

In his vows, Sebastian’s voice broke.

“You are my greatest adventure,” he said. “My safe harbor and my exciting unknown. You taught me that love isn’t about finding someone who fits into your world. It’s about creating a new world together.”

Emma’s tears fell freely.

“You made me believe I was worth noticing,” she replied. “Worth loving. Worth fighting for. You didn’t rescue me from my life. You helped me build the life I always dreamed of.”

When they kissed as husband and wife, Emma thought about the girl she had been. The one who felt forgotten, who took up as little space as possible, who assumed love was something that happened to other people.

That girl hadn’t changed into someone else.

She had simply learned to believe she was worth seeing.

Sebastian and Emma Blackwood left the chapel hand in hand, ready to face whatever came next together. They had learned that love wasn’t about erasing differences, but celebrating them. It wasn’t about one person saving another, but about two people choosing, over and over, to meet in the middle and build something real.

And in the end, the girl who thought no one would notice her became impossible to ignore.

Not because she became louder.

But because she finally believed she mattered.

THE END