My Empire in White
I didn't want a fairytale.
I wanted a legacy.
So I didn't get married in a church with stained glass and flower petals.
I got married in a château older than most countries—on the edge of Paris, where power sips champagne and history wears heels.
No pastel bridesmaids.
No fake tears.
Just hand-picked people who knew better than to cross me.
They called it the wedding of the decade.
But it was never about the guests.
It was about him.
Theo stood at the altar in a white suit that made him look like both a sinner and a saint.
God, he was beautiful.
Not just in the tux.
In the way he looked at me—like the war had been worth it.
And me?
I didn't wear a veil. I wore a crown—stitched in diamonds and soft rebellion.
My dress? Elie Saab. Custom. Off-the-record. Worth more than most stocks.
Every step I took, the room held its breath.
Not because I was a bride.
But because I was me.
And I'd finally chosen him.
We didn't do vows.
Not really.
He looked at me, voice just above a whisper, and said—
"I'd do it all again. Even the worst parts. Especially the worst parts. Because they led me to you."
And I smiled, that kind of smile that once brought men to their knees.
Then I leaned in and told him the truth—
"I'd go to detention every day for the rest of my life… if it meant sitting next to you."
And when he kissed me—slow, sure, claiming—I knew:
This wasn't the end of a scandal.
It was the coronation of us.
The girl.
The professor.
And the empire we built from the ashes.
The End.