Chapter 276. The Night Before

The suite at the Claridge’s was a masterpiece of art deco opulence, all soft curves, muted gold, and a silence so profound it seemed to swallow sound. It was meant to be a sanctuary, a cocoon of calm before the transformative storm of the day. For Sabatine, it felt like a beautifully appointed cell.

Jessica and Gina had left hours ago, full of tears, laughter, and final, fussing adjustments to the moonstone-grey dress hanging like a spectre of serenity in the vast closet. They had taken the chatter, the warmth, the distraction, with them.

Now, alone, the immensity of it all crashed over her.

It wasn’t fear. She had known fear—cold, sharp, and metallic in the back of her throat. This was different. This was a vast, humming, luminous pressure. The weight of pure, unadulterated joy, so dense it felt like gravity had tripled in the room. She was getting married. To Anton. Tomorrow.

She paced the silken carpet, her bare feet making no sound. Her mind, usually a weapon of precise focus, was a riot of impressions: the feel of the heavy silk crepe between her fingers, the look on Leon’s face when he’d gruffly practised his best-man duties, the way the light in the ancient church they’d chosen fell in coloured shafts through the stained glass. The scent of the lilies that would fill the space. The taste of the champagne that would wait. The sound of her own voice, saying I do.

Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She tried to breathe, using the techniques from Dr. Mehta’s office—in for four, hold for seven, out for eight—but the numbers scattered like leaves in the gale of her happiness.

She was happy. Terrifyingly, overwhelmingly so. For a woman whose emotional landscape had been mapped in shades of grief, guilt, and grim determination, this vibrant, blazing country of joy was foreign territory. She didn’t know how to navigate it. She felt unmoored, dizzy with the altitude.

She glanced at the bed, a vast, inviting expanse of linen. Sleep was a ludicrous proposition. Her body thrummed with wild energy. She could run a marathon, dismantle a complex server farm, or, she thought with a slightly hysterical edge, single-handedly plan a diplomatic summit. She could not lie still.

She went to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain. London glittered below, a universe of ordinary lives and quiet dramas. In a few hours, she would stand at the centre of a small, chosen universe within it and make a promise that would bind her life to another’s in a way no mission brief or legal contract ever could. It was the ultimate vulnerability. The final, glorious surrender.

Her phone, face-down on the bedside table, lit up with a soft glow. A text.

Her breath caught. She knew who it was before she crossed the room.

It was from Anton. No preamble. No question. Just five words:

Tomorrow, I become yours.

The world stopped spinning. The frantic energy coalesced, crystallized into a single, piercing point of pure, radiant truth.

He wasn’t saying you become mine. That was the old language, the language of possession and conquest that had defined his world and endangered hers. He was offering himself. A gift. A vow already in motion.

I become yours.

Tears, hot and sudden, blurred the screen. They were not the tears of overwhelmed panic, but of profound, humbling understanding. He was as awake as she was. He was feeling this same terrifying, glorious immensity. And he was articulating its core: not a taking, but a giving. Not a change of status, but a change of state.

Her thumbs trembled as she typed back. The words came without thought, the only ones that could possibly answer him.

I already am yours. Tomorrow, I just have to say it out loud.

She sent it and pressed the phone to her chest, as if the words could seep into her heart and steady it. She looked again at the message on the screen. Tomorrow, I become yours.

He was right. That was a miracle. Not the dress, the flowers, the ceremony. The conscious, deliberate act of becoming. They had spent a year tearing down walls, healing wounds, and building trust. Tomorrow was the ceremonial laying of the cornerstone on the foundation they had already built. It was the declaration of a fact that already existed.

The pressure didn’t vanish, but it transformed. It was no longer the chaotic energy of joy; it was the focused, potent energy of anticipation. A quiet certainty bloomed in her chest, warm and solid.

She put the phone down and walked back to the closet. She didn’t touch the dress. She looked at it. It was no longer a daunting symbol; it was her uniform for the most important mission of her life: showing up, whole and true, to meet the man who was giving himself to her.

She crawled into the enormous bed. The sheets were cool. She closed her eyes. The frantic thoughts were still there, but they had a centre now, an anchor point: his five words.

Tomorrow, I become yours.

She imagined him in his study at the townhouse, perhaps looking at the framed fragment of circuit board, or out at their garden. Alone, as she was. Not lonely. Connected by this thread of luminous, sleepless anticipation.

A smile touched her lips in the dark. They were in sync, even now. Even apart.

Sleep did not come easily, but it came. Not the deep, oblivious sleep of exhaustion, but a light, shimmering doze, as if her consciousness was too bright to be fully extinguished. She dreamt not of weddings, but of quiet moments: his hand in hers on a cliffside, the sound of his laugh in their kitchen, the weight of his head on her shoulder as he slept.

When the first grey light of dawn touched the London skyline, she opened her eyes. The overwhelming joy was still there, but it had settled. It was a deep, resonant hum in her bones, a readiness. The night before was over. The day of becoming has arrived.

She reached for her phone once more, her final message before the silence of preparation began.

I’m ready. See you at the altar.

The reply was instantaneous.

I’ll be the one waiting.

And just like that, the last vestige of restlessness vanished. He would be waiting. She would be coming. And they would, together, become.

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