When the devil married me:4

Galaxy woke to the sound of rain against glass and the steady rhythm of Vincent’s breathing beneath her cheek.

Three weeks since the hospital. Three weeks since Nero carried evidence into a courtroom while she sat in a bed with bandaged wrists and a split lip that was finally healing. Three weeks since Vincent had slept in a chair beside her bed for four nights straight, refusing to leave even when the nurses suggested he might be more comfortable elsewhere.

He had looked at them with the expression that made board members resign and simply said, “No.”

They hadn’t suggested it again.

Now they were home. Really home. In the master bedroom with morning light filtering gray and soft through rain-streaked windows, Vincent’s arm heavy across her waist and his face pressed into her hair like he was still afraid she might disappear.

Galaxy shifted carefully, trying not to wake him.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his arm tightening.

“I’m not leaving. I’m just—”

“Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t exist separately from me for at least another hour.”

She smiled against his chest. “That seems medically inadvisable.”

“I’ll hire doctors who advise differently.”

She laughed softly and settled back against him. His hand found hers beneath the covers, their fingers interlacing with the automatic ease of something practiced a thousand times.

Three weeks ago she had been tied to a chair in Kael’s apartment with a countdown timer on a laptop screen. Now she was here. Safe. Warm. Listening to her husband’s heartbeat beneath her ear while his thumb traced lazy circles on her wrist.

Husband. The word still made something flutter in her chest. Not the cold, hollow way it had felt on their first wedding night — when he told her they would live separate lives and she wrote in her journal that she felt buried alive. Now it felt like warmth. Like belonging. Like a choice she made every single morning.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Vincent said, his voice rough with sleep.

“You get a small crease between your eyebrows,” he continued, brushing the spot gently. “Right there. It appears when you’re processing something significant.”

“I was thinking about how different this is. From the beginning.”

“I told you we would live separate lives. I watched you through security cameras instead of talking to you.”

“You were scared.”

“I was an idiot who was scared. There’s an important distinction.”

The bedroom door opened without warning. Only one person entered Vincent’s room without knocking, and she had been doing it for twenty-seven years.

“Mr. Drax,” Maren said crisply, eyes fixed on a point above the bed. “Your nine o’clock is in forty-five minutes. And Miss Galaxy — you have letters. One from the Whitfield committee.”

Galaxy went still.

Vincent sat up immediately. “Maren. Out. The nine o’clock can wait.”

“The nine o’clock is the board of directors, Mr. Drax.”

“Then they can contemplate their life choices while they wait.”

Maren set the envelopes on the dresser and retreated with suspiciously bright eyes.

Galaxy sorted through the stack with trembling fingers. Three from Harrington. One from student finance. And one heavy cream envelope with the Whitfield Foundation seal embossed in gold.

“Open it,” Vincent said quietly.

She slid her finger under the seal.

Her eyes scanned the letterhead, the formal greeting, the first paragraph — and she made a small sound that wasn’t quite a word.

“Galaxy. What does it say?”

She handed him the letter.

Vincent read it in three seconds. Then he smiled — not the controlled boardroom smile, not the small private smile he saved for moments when he thought she wasn’t looking. Something open and unguarded and almost unbearably beautiful.

“Your nomination has been upheld unanimously,” he read aloud. “You are one of three national finalists.”

Galaxy burst into tears.

He pulled her into his arms immediately. “You did this. Not my money. Not my name. Your own brilliant, stubborn, magnificent mind.”

He held her through it — steady, patient, his heartbeat calm beneath her ear. When she finally pulled back, blotchy and swollen, he looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Now,” he said, his expression shifting to something almost mischievous. “About something I’ve been planning.”

“What?”

“An announcement. About us. About the real wedding.” He retrieved his phone. “I have seventeen drafts. Nero rejected fourteen for being excessively emotional.”

Galaxy laughed. “Read me the survivor.”

Vincent read aloud: “‘Vincent Drax and Galaxy Emery Drax are pleased to announce their upcoming wedding celebration, to be held this spring at the Drax estate. Galaxy Emery chose me — the least I can do is make sure the world knows I chose her back.’”

Silence.

“That’s the line,” Galaxy said. “The one that’s going to break the internet.”

“I’m aware.”

“You did it on purpose.”

“I did everything on purpose.” He took her hand. “I want no ambiguity. No possibility that anyone could doubt you are the most important thing in my world.”

“When do you want to release it?”

“Today. In approximately forty-three minutes.”

“You scheduled it before asking me?”

“I was very confident you would say yes.”

“Release it,” she said. “Let the world know.”

The announcement went live at 9:47 AM. By 9:52 AM Galaxy’s phone had crashed.

Nero called within minutes. “Trending nationally in eleven minutes. The phrase ‘I chose her back’ is the third-highest trending topic. Second is a hospital photograph of you holding Mrs. Drax’s hand while she sleeps. Caption reads ‘the devil has a soul after all.’”

“That is a security breach,” Vincent said flatly.

Galaxy squeezed his arm. “It’s a security breach making people think you’re romantic instead of terrifying.”

“I don’t want to be romantic. I want to be terrifying.”

“Too late.”

By afternoon the estate was vibrating with energy. Maren produced a color-coded wedding planning binder. Sal was baking six experimental cakes simultaneously. Hugo was marking flower beds with small flags.

Galaxy found Hugo kneeling near the yellow wildflowers. He looked up with a rare smile.

“These will be ready in time. For the ceremony.”

“You remember that I love yellow?”

“I remember everything about the day you arrived. You were scared. But you stopped to notice the flowers. You still said something kind.” He stood slowly. “This place was cold before you came. Beautiful, but cold. Like a museum. You made it warm.”

Galaxy hugged him — impulsive, probably inappropriate. Hugo stood stiff for a moment before his arms came up to pat her back.

“Thank me by being happy,” he said gruffly. “Now go inside before Mr. Drax comes to check on you. He’s been staring from that window for seventeen minutes.”

“You counted?”

“Someone has to keep track.”

The day ended where it began — in the garden, as the sky turned violet and the first stars appeared.

Vincent stopped walking and turned to face her, taking both her hands.

“This place was my father’s house. Then it was my house. Then it was a building I slept in between board meetings.” His voice was quiet. “Now it’s wherever you are. You’re the only home I’ve ever had.”

“The wedding,” he said. “I want it soon. Spring. Before anything else can happen. I’ve wasted enough time pretending I didn’t love you.”

“That’s not wasted time. That’s how we got here.”

“I want to marry you properly. With vows I actually mean.”

“You didn’t mean them before?”

“Then they were obligations. Now I would mean every syllable so much it would terrify me to say them out loud.”

“You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I know.” He pulled her closer. “That’s the most frightening part.”

They stood there as the light faded — the scent of Hugo’s flowers carrying something that smelled like change, like possibility, like a future that was finally theirs.

“Take me inside,” Galaxy murmured.

“Are you cold?”

“No. I just want to be home.”

Vincent’s smile was slow and warm and entirely for her.

“Then let’s go home.”

And they did.