My parents threw me out at sixteen because I had one leg.

Six months later, on an unseasonably warm afternoon in late October, our wedding took place in the central courtyard of The Cybil House.

There were no country-club photographers hired to stage a portrait of artificial perfection. There were no socialites sipping champagne while whispering cruel gossip behind linen napkins.

There was only music, autumn leaves drifting like gold confetti through the afternoon sun, and the people who truly loved us.

I wore an ivory silk gown with a high, elegant side slit that made no attempt to conceal my left leg. The titanium prosthesis had been custom-finished by Nathan’s team in a pearlescent white lacquer, gleaming softly in the sunlight, etched with delicate botanical patterns of blooming dogwood.

I didn't hide my scars.

I didn't hide my stride.

I walked down the stone aisle on my own two feet, my arm linked through Aunt Cybil’s.

Cybil was crying openly now, completely abandoning her pretense of being a tough, unsentimental old woman. “You look beautiful, Rose,” she whispered as we reached the altar. “Alistair would have been so proud of you today.”

“He’s here,” I answered, touching the small silver locket around my neck that held a pinch of earth from his favorite lighthouse. “Both of you are.”

Nathan stood waiting for me, his tuxedo sharp, his eyes shining with profound emotion. When he took my hands into his, his grip was firm and reverent.

Our vows were simple. We didn't promise an easy life. We promised honesty, partnership, and an unshakeable harbor in any storm the world could conjure.

As the minister pronounced us husband and wife, Nathan drew me close and kissed me—a deep, lingering promise of tomorrow.

The reception was a joyous, chaotic celebration of life.

Marigold danced with David, my head of security, laughing as her motorized brace effortlessly kept time with the swing rhythm of the live jazz band.

Marcus Hayes was engaged in a surprisingly passionate debate with Cybil over the proper way to roast a chicken.

And late in the evening, as the stars began to pierce the twilight canopy above the trees, Nathan and I slipped away from the reception tent, walking down the winding stone path toward the edge of the forest reserve.

We sat on a cedar bench overlooking the valley. Below us, the lights of the city glittered like a sea of fallen stars.

Nathan put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into the warmth of his chest. I rested my head against his shoulder, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly, kissing the top of my head.

“About December nineteen years ago,” I confessed.

“Does it still hurt?”

I looked down at my white-lacquered prosthetic resting quietly against the grass.

“The memory exists,” I said. “The cold exists. But the hurt... the hurt has no power anymore. When Sterling threw that trash bag at my chest, he thought he was throwing away garbage. He didn't realize he was planting a seed.”

Nathan smiled, his fingers tracing the curve of my hand. “A seed that grew into an oak tree.”