THIRD PERSON POV
June arrived softly, the way answered prayers do.
The morning sun hovered gently over Ado-Ekiti, casting a warm glow on the city as if it, too, had been invited. By noon, the air was alive—talking drums echoing through the hills, the hum of excitement weaving itself into every street leading toward the venue.
Today was a birthday.
Today was a wedding.
The venue was elegant without trying too hard to impress—an expansive open terrace transformed into royalty. Ivory and champagne drapes flowed freely, interwoven with fresh flowers and gold accents. Warm lights hung above like blessings suspended in the air. It was tasteful. Intentional. Unmistakably Akanni.
Guests arrived in waves—family elders in dignified agbadas, women wrapped in rich lace and aso-oke, executives in tailored suits, friends who had watched the journey unfold quietly, and those who had only heard whispers of it.
This was not a loud celebration.
It was a meaningful one.
When the drums changed rhythm, heads turned.
Mira appeared.
She wore ivory lace sewn to perfection, modest yet breathtaking, with delicate embroidery that shimmered each time she moved. Her gele was regal, tied with quiet confidence, framing a face that held both peace and awe—as if she still couldn't believe she had arrived here.
As she walked forward, escorted by her parents, the crowd softened. Conversations fell away. Even the air seemed to slow.
Across the terrace, Akanni stood waiting.
He wore cream agbada with subtle gold detailing, his cap tilted just right. Calm. Grounded. Steady. The man who had survived storms now stood at the center of calm.
When Mira reached him, their eyes locked.
Nothing else mattered.
The officiant began, but Akanni barely heard the words at first. All he saw was the woman before him—the one who had seen him stripped of illusion and still chose him.
"Do you, Akanni Bamidele," the officiant said, "take Mira Adeyemi to be your wife—your partner, your companion, your home—through strength and through weakness, in abundance and in rebuilding?"
Akanni did not hesitate.
"I do," he said, clearly. Firmly. Like a vow he had already lived.
"And do you, Mira Adeyemi—"
"I do," she said, her voice trembling slightly, eyes shining. She didn't wait for the rest.
Soft laughter rippled through the crowd, easing into smiles and nods of approval.
The rings were exchanged—simple, elegant bands that carried more history than gold could ever show.
When Akanni slipped the ring onto Mira's finger, his thumb lingered there for half a second longer than necessary.
A promise without words.
"By the authority vested in me," the officiant declared, "I pronounce you husband and wife."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
Cheers exploded.
Ululations pierced the air. Drums thundered louder. Applause rose like a wave crashing against the terrace walls.
Akanni pulled Mira into his arms, resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed.
Not possession.
Belonging.
When he kissed her, it wasn't rushed or dramatic. It was slow. Certain. Like a man sealing what had already been decided long before today.
As they turned to face the crowd, hands intertwined, the city watched.
Two people who had survived loss, scandal, rebuilding, and silence—standing whole.
June had not come loudly.
But it had come with truth.
And this wedding—this moment—wasn't the beginning of love.
It was the reward for enduring it.
MIRA POV — BEING CHOSEN
I had always been the woman behind the scenes.
The fixer.
The stabiliser.
The one who made powerful men look good without ever being seen.
But that night, Akanni chose me publicly.
Not in whispers.
Not in secrecy.
Not as consolation.
As certainty.
When he held my hand up, ring catching the light, I felt something unlock inside me.
For the first time, I wasn't useful.
I was wanted.
I caught sight of his parents—his mother nodding slowly, eyes misty. His father standing straighter, pride evident even in restraint.
No one questioned it.
Not after everything they had seen.
Later that night, when the guests had thinned and the music softened, Akanni leaned close to me.
"You okay?" he asked.
I laughed softly. "I feel like the whole city just looked at me differently."
He smiled. "They should."
I rested my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"I don't feel like I won," I admitted.
"I feel like I arrived."