Chapter 278. Anton at the Altar

The air inside St. Stephen Walbrook was cool, still, and thick with the scent of beeswax, old stone, and the extravagant, green-white fragrance of lilies. Light, stained by the great dome’s windows, fell in coloured shafts—ruby, sapphire, emerald—pooling on the black-and-white marble floor and gliding the edges of the ancient pews. The quiet was a living thing, a held breath underscored by the soft, anticipatory rustle of two hundred guests.

Anton stood before the curved steps leading to the altar, his back to the nave, Leon a solid, reassuring presence just behind his right shoulder. He had chosen this church not for its grandeur, but for its harmony. The masterpiece by Christopher Wren was a study in perfect, mathematical proportion, a sanctuary of reason. He had thought its serene logic would steady him.

He was wrong.

Every rational cell in his body had dissolved. He was a constellation of raw, vibrating sensation. The feel of the too-stiff collar of his morning coat. The deafening thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears. The dry, papery taste of a fear that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the magnitude of the blessing about to be bestowed upon him.

He had faced boardroom coups, assassination attempts, the unraveling of his father’s legacy. None of it had prepared him for this: the terrifying, exquisite vulnerability of pure, public hope.

He focused on the intricate carvings on the altar rail, tracing the cool logic of the acanthus leaves with his eyes, trying to anchor himself. Breathe. In. Out. The instructions from a hundred tactical briefings were useless. His lungs refused to cooperate.

The gentle prelude from the string quartet in the gallery faded. A new, profound silence descended, deeper than before. It was the silence of a door about to open.

Then, the first, resonant note of the processional.

It was like a current applied directly to his spine. Every muscle locked. He couldn’t turn. Protocol, drilled into him by a dozen consultants, dictated that he wait until she was halfway down the aisle. It was the cruelest rule ever devised.

He heard the collective, soft intake of breath from the guests first. A whisper, like the wind through a field of wheat. Then a muffled, feminine sob—Gina’s, he thought distantly. A low, approving murmur from the security contingent seated together.

Leon leaned forward, his voice a barely audible rumble. “Steady, boss.”

But Anton was beyond steadying. The air pressure in the church changed, charged with a new and potent energy. He could feel her approach, a gravitational pull stronger than the earth’s.

He broke. He turned.

And the world ceased to exist.

There was no church, no guests, no music. There was only Sabatine, framed in the blaze of daylight from the open door at the far end of the nave.

The sun, that perfect, conspiratorial sun, was at her back. It lit the edges of her figure in a corona of gold, turning the moonstone-grey silk into a vessel of captured light. She was not walking; she was advancing with a serene, inevitable grace that was both utterly alien and completely familiar. The dress, which he had seen in the atelier’s shadows, was now a revelation in the light—a cascade of luminous grey that spoke of dawn and armour and deep, still water. The high neck, the severe lines, should have been forbidden. Instead, they were a declaration. This was no demure bride. This was a queen claiming her consort.

But it was her face that undid him utterly. The sharp, watchful lines were softened not by makeup, but by an expression of such profound, peaceful certainty it stole the air from his lungs. Her eyes were fixed on his, and in them, he saw not the shadows of their past, but the blazing, shared future. She was looking at him as if he were the answer to a question she’d carried all her life.

A wave of dizziness, vertiginous and absolute, crashed over him. The solid marble beneath his feet seemed to liquefy. The coloured light from the windows swam and blurred. The sound of the music melted into a distant, meaningless hum. His vision tunneled, darkening at the edges, until she was the only thing in focus, growing larger, more radiant, more impossible with every step.

His knees buckled. Just a fraction, a tremor of pure, overwhelming awe. But it was enough.

Jessica, sitting in the front pew where she belonged, saw it. She saw the rigid control in his shoulders shatter, and saw the subtle, terrifying sway. In a movement born of a decade of anticipating his every need, she was up. Not making a scene, but simply there, her hand firm on his elbow, her body a discreet shield between him and the congregation.

Her voice, low and fierce, cut through the roaring in his ears. “Breathe, Anton. Look at her. Just breathe.”

The touch, the command, grounded him. He dragged in a shuddering gasp of lily-scented air. His vision cleared slightly. Sabatine was closer now. He could see the black sapphires at her ears, tiny echoes of the ring on her hand. He could see the faint, tremulous smile that was just for him.

Jessica gave his arm a final, reassuring squeeze and melted back into her seat.

The distance closed. Sabatine reached the end of the aisle. She released Leon’s arm with a small, deliberate press of thanks. Then she turned and took the three steps up to the chancel to stand beside Anton.

She didn’t look at the priest. She looked at Anton, her gaze holding his, steadying him as surely as Jessica’s hand had. In her eyes, he saw a flicker of understanding, of shared awe. She had seen his moment of unravelling. And in that look, she gathered the threads of him and held them, silently saying, I’m here. I’ve got you.

The dizziness receded, replaced by a clarity so sharp it was painful. He was here. She was here. The sunlight through the dome was a benediction. The scent of lilies was a promise. The man he had been—the lonely fortress, the wary heir—was gone, dissolved in the light she brought with her.

As the priest began to speak, Anton reached out, not caring about protocol. His fingers found hers. They were cool and steady. He laced them with his own, the twin bands of their engagement ring—platinum and tungsten—pressing together. He didn’t hear the words of the ceremony. He heard only the silent vow passing between their joined hands, in the space between heartbeats: I am yours. You are mine. We are home.

He had not collapsed. He had been remade. And as he stood at the altar, holding the hand of the woman who was fire and steel and his entire heart, Anton Rogers knew he was finally, irrevocably, standing on solid ground.

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