Chapter 282. The Reception

The reception was held in the Great Room of the Guildhall, a cavernous, glorious space of Gothic arches, stained glass, and portraits of long-dead merchants gazing down with stern approval. But for Anton and Sabatine, the vast history of the place was merely a backdrop. The world had shrunk, sweetly and completely, to a bubble of golden light, music, and the faces of the people they loved.

The formalities—the cutting of the towering, minimalist cake (dark chocolate and blood orange, Sabatine’s choice), the tender, hilarious speeches from Jessica and a visibly emotional Leon (who managed three full sentences before gruffly declaring, “That’s all you get,” to thunderous applause)—were observed with joy, then gratefully left behind.

Now, it was just a party. Their party.

On the dance floor, under the soft glow of a thousand tiny lights strung from the ancient beams, they moved. Anton, who had taken waltz lessons for this moment with the same focus he applied to mergers, found he didn’t need the steps. Sabatine, who had threatened to lead, simply let him guide her, her body a fluid, trusting weight against his. The string quartet had swapped Elgar for Gershwin, and the music was all swing and smile.

“You’re actually a decent dancer,” she murmured into his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

“I had an excellent teacher,”he replied, his hand splayed possessively at the small of her back, over the heavy silk. “He threatened to break my toes if I stepped on his.”

She laughed,the sound bright and free, her head falling back. “I should have hired him.”

He spun her out,then pulled her back in, closer than before. “You taught me something better. How to follow a different rhythm.”

They danced until their feet ached, then collapsed, laughing, at their sweetheart table, where Gina immediately appeared with glasses of champagne and plates of canapés they were too exhilarated to eat. They fed each other strawberries dipped in chocolate anyway, sticky and silly, and Sabatine threatened to smear chocolate on his pristine white shirt.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his eyes dancing.

“Try me,”she shot back, holding the berry like a weapon.

He kissed her instead, a swift, sweet, chocolate-tinged kiss that made a group of junior analysts from Rogers Industries whoop with delight.

The room was a tapestry of their joined worlds. Board members in tailcoats chatted easily with Sabatine’s security team in their best suits. General Thorne was deep in conversation with the head of the new Ethics division. Leon, having shed his tie, was demonstrating a disarmament move to a fascinated group that included Jessica’s new husband, Leo.

For once, there were no threats to assess, no encrypted ghosts in the corner of the eye, no tension in the line of Sabatine’s shoulders. The security was airtight and invisible, allowing her, for the first time in her adult life, to truly let down her guard. She was just a woman at her wedding, dizzy with happiness.

Anton watched her move through the crowd. She was magnetic. People were drawn to her not out of deference to her new title, but to the calm, joyful light she radiated. She hugged Gina, she high-fived a young tech from her team, she listened with genuine interest as an elderly aunt of Anton’s told a rambling story. She was in her element, not as a soldier, but as the heart of a family she had helped create.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Leon, holding two tumblers of amber liquid. He handed one to Anton.

“To quiet nights,”Leon rumbled, clinking his glass against Anton’s.

“And to the people who make them possible,”Anton replied, his gaze finding Sabatine again as she threw her head back in laughter at something Jessica said.

As the night deepened, the music shifted again, to something slower, softer. The dance floor cleared somewhat, leaving space for the true intimates. Anton found Sabatine by the great stone fireplace, sipping water and watching the flames.

“No more stamina, Mrs. Rogers?” he teased, coming up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist.

She leaned back into him,the silk of her dress cool against his front. “Just conserving energy,” she said, a sly note in her voice. “The night is young, Mr. Rogers.”

He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, her perfume, the lingering hint of champagne. “Dance with me,” he whispered. “One more.”

They moved back onto the floor, this time just swaying amidst a few other couples. There was no technique now, just the simple, sacred comfort of holding each other. Her head rested on his shoulder, her arms looped around his neck. His world was the scent of her hair, the feel of her ring under his hand where it clasped hers, the steady, synchronized beat of their hearts.

“Today,” she said, her voice muffled against his jacket. “Today was…”

“Perfect,”he finished.

“No,”she said, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes were serious in the dim light. “Not perfect. Real. It was us. Tears and laughter and awkward relatives and Leon’s terrible speech. It was real. That’s better than perfect.”

He kissed her forehead. “You’re right. It was gloriously, messily, beautifully real.”

The reception wound down in a warm, contented haze. As they made their way to the door for their departure, they were showered not with rice, but with dried lavender—Gina’s idea, for prosperity and peace. The scent followed them into the waiting vintage car, a cloud of purple and sweetness.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Sabatine looked out the back window at the glowing facade of the Guildhall, at the waving, laughing figures of their friends already spilling out onto the ancient pavement. Then she turned to Anton, her dress pooling around her like moonlight in the dark interior.

She didn’t speak. She just looked at him, her smile softer now, private, full of a knowledge that went beyond words.

He took her hand. “For once,” he said, echoing the thought they had both shared all evening, “the world was only a celebration.”

She brought his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, then the plain platinum band now residing there. “And tomorrow,” she said, her eyes holding a promise that made his breath catch, “the world is only us.”

The car carried them away from the noise and the light, into the quiet London night. The reception was over. The celebration, they both knew, was just beginning.

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