Emily's POV
The city was still reeling from the news of Sarah Vance's arrest, but inside the Thompson Manor, the air had turned from cold steel to silk and lace. The shadows of the past were finally retreating, replaced by the frantic, joyous chaos of wedding planning.
Leo, predictably, had appointed himself the "Grand Architect of Celebration."
"Listen, I've crunched the numbers, Andrew," Leo said, pacing the living room with three different bridal magazines tucked under his arm. "A church is too traditional. A beach is too messy. I'm thinking we do the ceremony right here, on the manor grounds. We build a glass cathedral over the garden. It'll look like you're getting married in a diamond."
Andrew sat on the sofa, looking at a stack of guest lists with a look of quiet resignation. He looked at me, pleading for help.
"Leo," I laughed, taking the magazines from him. "We want a wedding, not a world's fair. We want something intimate. Just family and the people who stood by us when things were dark."
"So... a small glass diamond?" Leo joked, then softened. "Okay, okay. Your day, your rules. But Andrew, the suit has to be legendary. No off-the-rack stuff. I've already called a tailor in Milan."
Later that evening, after Leo had finally left to "scout locations" (which probably meant going to a club), the house became quiet. Andrew and I walked out into the garden—the same garden where he had first watched me from the shadows years ago.
The moonlight was silver, catching the dew on the grass. Andrew stopped by the old oak tree and turned to me. He took a small, velvet box from his pocket. My heart skipped a beat.
"I know I've said it a thousand times," Andrew said, his voice thick with emotion. "But I spent twenty years believing I was a dead man. I thought my only purpose was to take down the people who hurt us. I never thought I'd be standing here, planning a future."
He opened the box. Inside was a ring that took my breath away—a vintage, pear-cut diamond surrounded by smaller sapphires that looked like stars.
"This belonged to my mother," he whispered. "She hid it in a floorboard before the fire. I went back for it when I was fifteen. I've carried it through every fight, every mission, and every dark night. It was the only piece of my real home I had left."
He took the ring out, his hands remarkably steady for a man who had been through so much.
"Emily Rose, you aren't just my cousin, or my doctor, or my past. You are my home. Will you marry me?"
Tears blurred my vision as I nodded. "Yes. A thousand times, yes."
As he slipped the ring onto my finger, it felt like the final piece of a broken puzzle clicking into place. We weren't the traumatized children from the fire anymore. We were the survivors.
Andrew's POV
The wedding day arrived with a clarity that felt like a gift from the universe. We decided on a private ceremony in the manor's conservatory—the place where we had shared our first real moments of peace.
William Carter stood as my best man, looking uncharacteristically proud. Ethan was there, standing guard not out of necessity, but out of loyalty. And Leo was everywhere, ruffling hair and making sure the champagne was perfectly chilled.
When the doors opened and the music began—a soft, haunting melody on the cello—the world slowed down.
Emily walked down the aisle, her white lace dress trailing behind her like a cloud. She looked radiant, a vision of grace that made my chest ache. As her father, Mr. Rose, handed her to me, he whispered, "Take care of her, son."
"With my life," I promised.
The vows were simple. We didn't need grand speeches; we had lived our vows in the blood and the silence of the last twenty years.
"I, Andrew Parker Thompson, take you, Emily Rose, to be my wife," I said, looking directly into her emerald eyes. "I promise to protect your light, to share your burdens, and to never let the shadows touch you again."
"And I, Emily Rose," she replied, her voice clear and strong, "take you to be my husband. I promise to be your sanctuary, your truth, and your heart, forever."
When the chaplain pronounced us husband and wife, I didn't hesitate. I pulled her into a kiss that tasted of freedom. The guests cheered, Leo let out a loud whistle, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't looking over my shoulder.
The Ghost of New York was gone.
In his place stood a man, a husband, and a protector.
As we walked out of the conservatory as Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, I looked up at the sky. It was a bright, cloudless blue. The fire was out. The war was over.
We were finally, truly, home.