Today is about us.
The ceremony is being held at Julian’s estate in Napa.
Well, one of his estates. When you’ve been alive for as long as he has, you accumulate property the way normal people accumulate streaming subscriptions. But this one is special—a sprawling vineyard with a stone chapel from the 1800s. Julian bought it decades ago, restored it, and never told me why he kept it.
Until last month.
“I always thought I’d get married here,” he’d said. “Before Prague. Before I stopped believing it was possible.”
“And now?”
“Now I know why I kept it.”
The afternoon sun filters through the chapel windows. White roses and candles line the aisle. Seventy-five guests fill the pews—humans and vampires, friends and family, the two worlds I’m now a part of.
My mother sits in the front row, clutching a handkerchief. We still haven’t worked out all our issues, and we may never be fixed—but we’re trying. When I told her I was marrying Julian, she said, “He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. That’s more than I ever had.”
It wasn’t an apology. But it was something.
Violet sits beside her, already crying. Chris has his arm around her, looking overwhelmed by all the old-timey looking friends of Julian, not knowing he’s surrounded by vampires. At the engagement party, Elena had cornered him for twenty minutes to explain the proper etiquette for addressing her at formal events. He still hasn’t recovered.
The music shifts, and the Wedding March begins—something I was sure Julian was going to tell me a story about how someone he knew used to know the guy who wrote it. Luckily, he didn’t, even though I’d still love him if he did.
The doors open.
My father isn’t here to walk me down the aisle. He left when I was seven, and I stopped wishing for him sometime around thirteen. But Vi stands up, crosses to me, and takes my arm.
“Ready?” she whispers.
“Ready.”
We walk together. Two sisters who spent years circling each other, finally finding their footing. She squeezes my arm at the halfway point, then releases me.
And there’s Julian.
He’s standing at the altar in a black suit, his hair actually styled for once, his hands clasped in front of him. He looks calm. Composed. The same elegance he always projects.
But his eyes.
He watches me approach like I’m the answer to something he’s been asking for two and a half centuries. I reach the altar. Take his comforting, cool hands.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“You look—”
“Don’t you dare cry.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t going to cry.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face is lying.”
“Your face is perfect.” I squeeze his hands. “Now let’s get married before I lose my nerve.”
The officiant—a sweet older woman who has no idea she’s marrying a human to a 257-year-old vampire—clears her throat and begins.
I barely hear the opening words. I’m watching Julian, and he’s watching me.
