Our Wedding Had White Roses
Chapter 13 - Our Wedding Had White Roses
Margaret arrived at six in the morning.
The ceremony was at four.
She claimed flowers required supervision.
I suspected nerves.
The venue was a lakeside inn north of Chicago.
No mansion.
No private security perimeter.
No men checking jackets.
The guest list contained teachers, nurses, former colleagues, family, and three federal agents who were now simply friends.
White roses filled small glass jars on each table.
Nothing enormous.
Nothing that cost more than anyone’s salary.
I wore a simple dress.
Sofia cried before seeing me.
“I am practicing.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Dad walked with me.
Not giving me away.
Walking.
Halfway down the aisle, he whispered:
“You can still run.”
I laughed.
“Terrible father.”
“I’m giving options.”
Luca stood beneath an oak tree.
Dark suit.
Open expression.
No mythology.
He looked nervous.
Good.
When Dad and I reached him, Dad hugged me.
Then Luca.
Long enough to make Luca uncomfortable.
Excellent.
Before the ceremony, Luca gave me an envelope.
I almost refused on principle.
“What is it?”
“Not a secret.”
“Suspicious opening.”
“Read it later.”
“No.”
I opened it immediately.
Inside was a one-page financial disclosure.
Bank accounts.
Salary.
Remaining restitution obligations.
Debts.
No hidden companies.
No family trusts.
I looked at him.
“Is this romantic?”
“For me, extremely.”
I laughed.
Then my eyes filled.
Years earlier, secrets had been Luca’s form of safety.
Now he was offering transparency before vows.
Not because I demanded numbers.
Because he understood what concealed power had done to every family around us.
I folded the page.
“Keep this updated.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Annually.”
He stared.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He smiled.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Cold.”
“Transparent.”
The ceremony was short.
We wrote our own vows.
I hated the exercise.
Luca loved it.
He surprised me.
“I spent most of my life thinking loyalty meant nobody left.”
His voice shook.
“I know better now.”
He looked at me.
“Love is not keeping you where I can protect you.”
Sofia began crying louder.
“It is making sure you remain free beside me.”
My throat closed.
Then my turn.
“I met you when I was afraid of losing a job.”
A few people laughed.
“I stayed afraid of different things for a long time.”
I looked at him.
“You never made me fearless.”
That mattered.
“And I never made you good.”
Luca smiled through tears.
“We each had to do our own work.”
I took his hands.
“So I am not promising to save you.”
“Good.”
“I’m promising to tell you when your celery is terrible.”
Everyone laughed.
Sofia shouted:
“It is!”
Perfect.
We married.
No interruption.
No hidden husband.
No police.
No cooler.
Dinner followed.
Margaret danced with Evan.
Sofia danced with Dad.
Daniel danced badly with his wife.
Michael? Wait Michael from previous story—don't introduce. Avoid.
Vanessa did not attend.
She sent flowers.
Not white roses.
Daisies.
The card:
NO SECRETS IN THESE.
I put them near the kitchen.
Not center stage.
Appropriate.
Late in the evening, Luca and I sat outside away from everyone.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Regret?”
“Ask tomorrow.”
“Cruel.”
I leaned against him.
The lake was black.
Music drifted through open doors.
For the first time, engagement and wedding no longer felt like dangerous words.
They were simply ours.
A year later, we bought a house.
Modest by Luca’s old standards.
Large by mine.
The first argument was about security cameras.
He wanted six.
I wanted two.
We compromised at three.
That took forty minutes.
Marriage is glamorous.
I continued event management.
Then started a small business organizing community and nonprofit events.
Luca became a partner at his compliance firm.
He never used Moretti connections for contracts without disclosing them.
Painfully ethical.
Denise was proud.
Sofia recovered fully enough to insult everyone with both hands.
Dad’s scans remained clear.
Life became ordinary.
Then, at thirty-five, I found out I was pregnant.
We had not been trying aggressively.
Not avoiding either.
I stared at the test.
Luca stared at me.
Neither spoke.
Then he said:
“Are you okay?”
Not “Are you happy?”
Good question.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“What about you?”
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
He laughed.
Then cried.
The pregnancy ended at ten weeks.
That belongs in the story too.
Happy endings that erase grief are advertisements.
We were devastated.
Sofia did not say everything happens for a reason.
Margaret did not tell me to try again.
Dad brought groceries.
Luca lay beside me and said:
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Neither do I.”
So we did nothing.
Together.
Months passed.
We tried again.
Then stopped trying.
Then stopped making decisions about it.
At thirty-seven, we became foster parents to a fourteen-year-old girl named Maya after an employee at my company died unexpectedly.
Not because we needed a replacement child.
That would have been cruel.
Because Maya needed a safe temporary home.
Temporary lasted fourteen months.
Then she asked:
“If I stay, do I have to become Moretti?”
Luca answered immediately.
“No.”
I smiled.
Maya kept her surname.
Two years later, adoption became her idea.
Family without ownership.
Vittorio would have been confused.
Maybe proud.
Maybe both.
One Christmas, Maya asked why Grandma Sofia hated celery.
We told her the soup story.
Not all of it.
She was sixteen.
She searched the internet and found the rest.
The next morning she stared at us.
“Your engagement story is insane.”
“We did not have an engagement dinner,” I said.
“Technicality.”
Luca pointed at me.
“She nearly got crushed by roses.”
“You were the one marrying a criminal.”
“I was also a criminal.”
Maya blinked.
“At least therapy worked.”
I laughed so hard I spilled coffee.
There are moments when you realize the past has lost power.
Not because it vanished.
May you like
Because a teenager can mock it at breakfast.
That was one of them.
