Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~7 min read
[MARIUS POV – Five Weeks After Wedding]
Falling in love during legal warfare wasn’t advisable. Wasn’t practical. Wasn’t—
Was happening anyway.
Small moments. Stolen moments. Moments between court filings and media interviews and strategy sessions.
Like waking up to find Aspen already awake, watching me. “You photograph me in my sleep. I get to watch you.”
“That’s fair.”
“You look peaceful. When you’re sleeping. Not stressed. Not performing. Just—you.”
“So do you.”
We’d lie there. Morning light through terrible curtains. City noise outside. Just—existing together before the day demanded we be warriors again.
Or cooking disasters. I was getting better—marginally—but still burned things regularly.
“How do you burn water?” Aspen asked, staring at scorched pot.
“It was pasta water. It evaporated. Then burned. I got distracted.”
“By what?”
“You. You were laughing at something Bailey said and I—forgot I was cooking.”
She kissed me. “That’s the most romantic disaster I’ve ever seen.”
“I try.”
We ordered takeout. Again. Our kitchen skills were improving but slowly.
Bailey found us on couch sharing Chinese food, Netflix playing unwatched, just—talking.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” she said. “In middle of lawsuit and media circus and everything terrible, you’re—happy. How?”
“Don’t know,” Aspen admitted. “But we are. Somehow.”
Maybe because happiness felt rebellious. Felt like middle finger to everyone trying to destroy us. Felt like—
Like proof that joy could exist in terrible circumstances. That love could grow in disaster. That—
That we were more than our suffering.
I photographed her constantly. Couldn’t help it. She was—photogenic wasn’t right word. Real. She was real in ways people usually weren’t. No performance. No mask. Just—Aspen.
“You’re obsessed,” she said, watching me capture her reading legal documents.
“I’m documenting.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“Also true.”
I showed her the photos later. Hundreds of them. Her laughing. Her concentrating. Her sleeping. Her existing.
“I look—human,” she said. “Messy. Imperfect. Real.”
“That’s the point. You’re real. First real thing I’ve photographed in years. Everyone else is performance. You’re—you.”
“Is that good?”
“That’s everything.”
We made plans. Impossible plans. Plans for after the lawsuits. After the chaos. After—
After we survived this.
“Where would you go?” she asked one night. “If you could go anywhere. Do anything. Where would you go?”
“Barcelona. Study architecture there. Actually study it. Not business degree Father wanted. Not family obligation. Just—architecture. Buildings. Design. Creation.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Where would you go?”
“Wherever you go,” she said. “That sounds—cheesy. But true. I’d go wherever you go. Do whatever you do. As long as we’re together.”
“What about your dream? Investigative journalism. Exposing corruption. Making difference.”
“I am making difference. Right now. Fighting Dominic. Exposing his crimes. That’s—that’s journalism in real time. That’s investigation. And after—” She paused. “After I’d love to write about it. About healthcare costs and family caregiving and desperation that drives people to impossible choices. That’s—that’s journalism that matters.”
“You should. You’re good writer. I’ve read your legal documents. Your timeline for Marshall. You’re—gifted. Wasted serving drinks and doing social media for small businesses. You should be—writing. Investigating. Exposing.”
“Maybe someday. When this is over. When Mom’s stable. When—when we’re not drowning anymore.”
“We’ll get there. Together.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Sex became different too. Not desperate escape anymore. Not adrenaline and crisis. Just—
Just intimacy. Connection. Love expressed physically.
“I love you,” I said one night. During. Vulnerable. Real.
“I love you too,” she whispered back.
First time we’d said it during sex. Made it different. Made it—more.
Made it real instead of just physical.
After, lying tangled together, she said: “I never thought I’d find this. Love. Real love. I thought—I thought I was too busy drowning to have relationships. Too broken to deserve them. Too—damaged.”
“You’re not damaged. You’re strong.”
“Can’t I be both?”
“Yes. Both. Strong and damaged and surviving and—loved. You’re all of it. Everything. That’s—that’s what makes you extraordinary.”
“Stop calling me extraordinary. I’m just—existing.”
“Extraordinarily.”
She laughed. Buried her face in my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you.”
“That too.”
Bailey started dating Rhys. Which was—unexpected. And perfect.
They met during evidence gathering. Rhys delivering financial documents. Bailey bringing coffee. Something clicked.
“Your brother is cute,” Bailey told Aspen. “And funny. And—he asked me out. Is that weird? That I’m dating Marius’s brother?”
“It’s perfect,” Aspen said. “You deserve happiness too.”
So Bailey and Rhys went on dates while Aspen and I couldn’t—media would find us immediately, turn dates into scandal photos. So we had apartment dates instead.
Movie nights. Cooking attempts. Just—existing together.
All four of us sometimes. Double dates in tiny apartment. Laughing. Planning. Building—
Building chosen family. People who’d survived disaster together and decided to build something from wreckage.
“We’re weird,” Bailey said one night. “Lawsuit victims and documentary filmmaker and—whatever we are now. Weird family.”
“Best family I’ve ever had,” I said.
“Same,” Rhys agreed.
“Same,” Aspen echoed.
We were all refugees from our birth families. All choosing each other instead. Building something new. Something—better.
But disaster still lurked. Always lurking.
I got email from Father’s lawyer: Final notice. If you don’t return home and apologize publicly, disownment proceedings will be formalized. You have one week to decide.
“Are you going back?” Aspen asked after I showed her.
“No. Never. That’s not home anymore. This is home. You’re home. This—” I gestured around tiny apartment. “This is home.”
“You’re choosing poverty over wealth. Tiny apartment over mansion. You’re—giving up everything.”
“I’m choosing everything that matters. You. This life. This—freedom. That’s not giving up. That’s winning.”
“You’re sure?”
“Completely.”
I didn’t respond to Father’s email. Let deadline pass. Let disownment proceed. Let—
Let go. Of family that wanted me imprisoned. Of wealth that cost everything. Of—
Of cage disguised as privilege.
When disownment was finalized—legal notice delivered, access to all family resources terminated—I felt—
Felt lighter. Freed. Unchained.
“How does it feel?” Aspen asked. “Being officially disowned?”
“Liberating.”
“Really?”
“Really. They can’t control me anymore. Can’t threaten me. Can’t—manipulate me with inheritance and family duty and expectations. I’m free. Finally. Completely. Free.”
We celebrated. Champagne from corner store. Terrible quality. Perfect toast.
“To freedom,” Aspen said.
“To choice,” I added.
“To us,” Rhys contributed.
“To family we choose,” Bailey finished.
We drank. Laughed. Existed in moment between disaster and whatever came next.
Because whatever came next—lawsuits, trials, media, everything—we’d face together.
As family. Chosen family. People who’d survived impossible things and built something real from wreckage.
That night, Aspen and I lay in bed—our bed, our home, our chosen life.
“Do you regret it?” she asked quietly. “Everything you gave up. Wealth. Family. Future you were supposed to have.”
“Not for a second.”
“Really?”
“Really. Because that future was—death. Slow death. Acceptable death. Death disguised as success. But death nonetheless. This—” I pulled her closer. “This is life. Messy. Chaotic. Uncertain. But alive. Really alive. For first time ever.”
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” I answered.
Simple words. Said a thousand times. But meaning everything.
Meaning choice. Meaning partnership. Meaning—
Meaning forever if we could get there. If we could survive long enough to build forever. If—
If love was enough.
And maybe it was.
Maybe love + evidence + allies + determination was enough.
Maybe—
Maybe we’d find out.
Together.
Always together.
Whatever came next.
However it ended.
However we—
Survived this. Changed this. Built from this.
We’d do it together.
In tiny apartment. In chosen family. In love that grew from disaster and somehow—
Somehow became stronger than disaster.
Became everything.
Love amid chaos.
Life amid lawsuits.
Joy amid—
Amid everything terrible.
That was—
That was extraordinary.
That was survival.
That was—
That was us.
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