Tasha was unusually chipper that morning.
Emilia arched a brow as she followed her into the private lounge upstairs, just above the showroom floor where Sebastian had started hosting classic car enthusiasts. "You're awfully cheerful for someone who's supposed to be buried in the quarterly projections."
Tasha winked. "All part of the job. Now sit. Relax. You'll want to be comfortable for this."
Before Emilia could press further, the lights dimmed slightly, and the screen on the far wall flickered to life. It started with a grainy video—Sebastian, shirt half-drenched in sweat, wiping his hands on a towel.
"I'm not good with words," he said, facing the camera, his voice rough, familiar. "You know that. But ever since you walked into my chaos and saw something worth saving… I haven't gone a day without thinking how lucky I am."
Tasha touched Emilia's shoulder gently, then left the room, closing the door behind her.
The video continued. Scenes flashed—photos and clips Tasha must have secretly gathered: Sebastian teaching Emilia to change a tire, Emilia fixing his tie before a dinner date, them dancing barefoot in the garage during a late-night tune-up session.
"I never thought I deserved more," Sebastian's voice continued. "But you—Emilia—made me want more. Made me believe in more. And if you'll let me… I want to keep proving I can be the man who deserves you. Every single day."
The screen went dark.
Then the door opened again—Sebastian stepped in.
He was nervous. The kind of nervous Emilia had only seen once, when he first let her into his world.
He held out something in his palm. Not a ring box—just a delicate gold chain with a small, hand-shaped wrench charm engraved with the word Forever.
"This isn't the proposal you probably imagined," he murmured, stepping closer. "But it's mine. It's us. I don't need a big crowd, just you. Say you'll be mine, Emilia. Say we'll make this official, on our own terms."
She stared at the chain in his hand, her chest tightening as emotion choked her. It wasn't a diamond. It wasn't champagne or fireworks. It was better.
It was him.
"Yes," she breathed, the tears falling freely now. "A thousand times yes."
He pulled her into his arms, holding her like the world could burn and he'd still choose her.
And in that quiet, grease-scented room above the life they'd built together, Sebastian Lores claimed the woman who had already claimed his soul.
....
The idea of a wedding had always felt distant to Emilia—like something made of tulle and politics. In her world, love came second to legacy. But this wasn't that kind of union.
This was theirs.
She sat cross-legged on the couch in Sebastian's apartment—the one they barely used now that they'd started living full-time in her penthouse. A dozen notebooks, fabric swatches, and Pinterest screenshots were strewn between them, along with two mugs of lukewarm coffee and a box of half-eaten pastries.
"No guest list above twenty," Sebastian said firmly, scratching something on a page.
Emilia smirked. "You say that like I even want to invite twenty people."
"Well, I've got… four," he added. "You, Tasha, and maybe two guys from the garage."
She laughed. "I'm stealing Tasha. That leaves you with three."
He nudged her foot. "I get her half-time."
They were planning a wedding the only way they knew how—stripped of glamor and packed with meaning. Emilia chose a vintage villa just outside the city. Private. Warm. Not a flash of paparazzi or boardroom power plays in sight.
"I don't want a gown flown in from Milan," she murmured later that night, her head on Sebastian's chest. "I want something simple. Something I can move in… dance in."
"You'd look good in a potato sack," he said, kissing her temple.
She rolled her eyes. "You're terrible."
"And still yours."
Planning sessions turned into slow nights tangled on the couch. Tasha became their unspoken coordinator, subtly handling vendors, creating minimalist decor options that leaned into Emilia's taste for clean lines and Sebastian's fondness for wood, leather, and copper tones.
One evening, as Emilia flipped through a mock invitation, her fingers paused.
Emilia Stone and Sebastian Lores cordially invite you…
She read it again. Her name beside his. Not as a symbol of power. Not as a move on a chessboard. But as something sacred. Something real.
"Hey," she said softly, holding it up. "This is actually happening."
Sebastian turned from where he was oiling a hinge on one of his old clocks. He wiped his hands and came over, sitting beside her.
"Of course it is."
"Sometimes it still feels like a dream," she whispered. "After everything… the lies, the betrayal, the enemies… this—us—it still feels too good to be real."
He leaned in and kissed her, slow and grounding. "Then let's make it real."
They clinked mugs like champagne flutes and toasted to the life they were building—one blueprint, one promise, one unshakable vow at a time.