Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~9 min read
[MARIUS POV – Fifteen Months After Wedding]
I’d been planning this for weeks. Carefully. Secretly. Perfectly.
Not because I needed perfect. But because Aspen deserved—thought. Intention. Choice. Real choice. Not—
Not arrangement. Not obligation. Not—anything except freely given yes. Or no. Whatever she chose. I’d respect. Accept. Love her regardless.
But I hoped—I hoped for yes.
Rhys helped me plan. “Where are you proposing?”
“The Thornton estate. The garden. Where we first—where we conspired. Where we chose each other first time. Seems—fitting. To return there. To choose each other again. Officially. If she wants that.”
“The place where you two planned to blow up your life. Very romantic.”
“It is. Actually. It’s—where everything started. Real everything. Not performance. Not—arrangement. But actual choice. Actual partnership. I want to—honor that. Return to that. Choose that. Again.”
“What about ring?”
“Not diamond. Not—traditional. Something symbolic. Something—us. I was thinking—custom design. Both our birthstones. Intertwined. Two stones. Two people. Choosing to be together. Intertwined but—individual. Still ourselves. Still separate. But—together. By choice.”
“That’s perfect. Really perfect. She’ll love it.”
“Or she’ll say no.”
“She won’t say no.”
“She might. We talked about marriage. She’s—uncertain. After everything. After witnessing my arranged marriage. After crashing wedding. After—everything. She doesn’t know if marriage means anything. If it’s just—performance. Contract. Arrangement.”
“So show her it’s not. Show her it’s—choice. Public declaration of choosing each other. That’s what marriage should be. What yours will be. If she says yes.”
If she said yes.
I got estate’s permission to return. To use garden. They were—surprisingly gracious.
“We remember you,” estate manager said. “The scandal. The wedding. The—everything. But we also remember: You were brave. Both of you. Choosing yourselves. Choosing love. That’s—that’s what estates like this should celebrate. Love. Choice. Not just—performance and arrangement. Use the garden. We’d be honored.”
Day of proposal, I was terrified. Completely terrified. What if she said no? What if—
What if I was pushing? Pressuring? Making her feel—obligated? Trapped? All the things I’d been? All the things I’d feared becoming?
“Relax,” Rhys said. “You’re not forcing her. You’re asking. Huge difference. And she can say no. She knows that. You know that. It’s—safe. Real question. Not arrangement.”
I invited Aspen to dinner. “There’s place I want to show you. Take you. If you’re free Saturday.”
“Mysterious. I’m intrigued.”
Saturday arrived. Beautiful day. Perfect day. Not planned. Just—lucky. Universe cooperating.
I drove her to Thornton estate. She recognized it immediately.
“Why are we here?”
“I want to show you something. In the garden. Trust me?”
“Always.”
We walked through estate to garden. That bench. Where we’d sat. Where we’d conspired. Where we’d—
Where we’d chosen each other. First time. Really chosen.
“This is where it started,” I said. “This garden. This bench. This—choice. You told me what Dominic hired you to do. I told you I wanted out. We—we chose each other here. Before we knew what that meant. Before we knew—everything that would happen. We chose partnership. Conspiracy. Each other.”
“I remember. I was terrified. Certain you’d have me arrested. Certain I’d destroyed everything. But you—you chose me instead. Chose partnership.”
“I want to choose you again,” I said. “Officially. Publicly. Legally. If you want that. If you—if you’ll have me. Not from arrangement. Not from obligation. Not from—anything except wanting you. Choosing you. Loving you. Completely. Forever. However long forever lasts.”
I got down on one knee. Pulled out ring. Custom designed. Her birthstone and mine. Sapphire and emerald. Intertwined. Together but separate. Individual but—connected.
“Aspen Colby. I’m asking, not arranging. Will you choose to marry me? Choose to be my partner? My wife? My—my person? Forever? Will you—will you keep choosing me the way I choose you? Every day? Every moment? Will you—”
I was crying now. Couldn’t help it. Everything rising. Everything—
Everything I wanted. Everything I hoped. Everything—
“Will you marry me? Not because you have to. Not because of—arrangement or obligation or anything except love. Wanting. Choosing. Will you—will you choose this? Choose me? Choose—us? Officially? Permanently? Legally? If legal matters? If you want that? If you—”
“Yes,” she interrupted. Crying too. “Yes. Yes. God, yes. I choose you. I choose—marriage. Partnership. Forever. However long forever lasts. Yes. Absolutely. Completely. Yes.”
I slid ring on her finger. Perfect fit. Rhys had helped with sizing. Sneaky measuring. Planning. Everything—
Everything perfect.
She pulled me up. Kissed me. Both crying. Both—
Both choosing. Again. Still. Always.
“The ring is beautiful,” she said. Looking at stones. Two stones. Together. “It’s—us. Separate but together. Individual but—connected. That’s—that’s perfect. That’s exactly us.”
“That’s what I wanted. Not diamond. Not—traditional. But us. Symbolic. Real. Choice. Two people choosing to intertwine. To be—together. While staying ourselves. While being—individual. But together. By choice.”
“By choice,” she repeated. “That’s—that’s what this is. Choice. Not arrangement. Not—obligation. Just—us choosing each other. Publicly. Officially. Permanently. That’s—that’s everything.”
“You’re sure? You’re not feeling—pressured? Obligated? Trapped?”
“I’m feeling—chosen. And choosing. Freely. Completely. Joyfully. I want this. Want you. Want—marriage. Want public declaration that we’re choosing each other. Want—everything. With you. As your wife. Your partner. Your—your person. Forever. However long we get. I want it. All of it. With you.”
We sat on bench. Our bench. Where conspiracy had started. Where—
Where love had started. Really. That night. Choosing each other. Before we knew what that meant. Before—
Before everything.
“My parents got engaged in garden like this,” she said. “Mom told me once. Before she forgot. Dad proposed in garden. Simple proposal. Just—love and choice and wanting to be together. She said yes. They were happy. Until he died. Until—until everything ended. But they chose each other. Really chose. That’s—that’s what I want. What they had. Love and choice and—being chosen. Choosing someone. That’s everything.”
“That’s what this is. Love and choice and—choosing. Nothing else. Just—us deciding we want forever. Want legal partnership. Want—public declaration of choosing each other. That’s marriage. Should be marriage. Is marriage. For us.”
“When do you want to get married?” she asked.
“Whenever you want. Tomorrow. Year from now. Five years. Whenever you’re ready. There’s no—deadline. No pressure. Just—when it feels right. When we want to. When—when we’re ready to publicly declare what we already know. That we’re choosing each other. Forever.”
“What about small wedding? Like Bailey and Rhys? City hall? Dinner after? Just—us and people we love? No performance. No—spectacle. Just—choice. Witnessed. Celebrated. Simple.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Not big wedding? Not—making statement? Not showing world we chose love over everything?”
“The world already knows. We don’t need to prove anything. Don’t need—performance. Just—real ceremony. Real choice. Real witnesses. People who matter. That’s enough. That’s—everything.”
She was crying again. Happy tears. Joy tears. Chosen tears.
“I can’t believe this is real. Can’t believe—we’re here. Getting married. After everything. After scandal and lawsuits and breaking up and—everything. We’re here. Choosing each other. Officially. Getting married. That’s—that’s extraordinary.”
“That’s us. Extraordinary. Surviving everything. Building everything. Choosing—everything. Together. Always together.”
“Always together,” she agreed.
We called families that night. Announced engagement. Reactions were—
Were beautiful. Surprising. Perfect.
Bailey screamed. “FINALLY. I’ve been waiting for this. You’re getting married. Officially. That’s—that’s perfect. I’m so happy for you. Both of you.”
Rhys laughed. “About time. We’ve been married six months. You’re behind schedule.”
“Not competition,” I said.
“Everything’s competition,” he teased.
Priya cried. Happy crying. “You’re getting married. Choosing marriage. Real marriage. Not arrangement. That’s—that’s everything I wanted for you. Everything I didn’t have. You’re—you’re building what I couldn’t. What I should have. Thank you. For being brave enough to choose. To have what I didn’t.”
“You have it now, Maa. With Aditya. You chose too. Finally. It’s never too late.”
“No,” she agreed. “Never too late. Thank you for showing me that.”
Octavian’s reaction was quieter. Thoughtful. “Congratulations. Both of you. This is—this is right choice. Real choice. I’m—I’m proud of you. For choosing yourselves. For building life you want. For—for being braver than I was. Wiser. Better. Congratulations.”
Even Mom understood somehow. Lucid moment. Rare gift.
“You’re getting married?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom. To Marius. The man I love.”
“That’s good. That’s—that’s what you should do. Marry someone you love. Someone who chooses you. That’s—that’s right. That’s good. I’m happy for you, dear. Even if I can’t remember why. I’m happy.”
“That’s enough, Mom. That’s everything.”
That night, lying in bed, Aspen studied ring. Two stones. Together.
“I can’t stop looking at it. It’s—perfect. It’s us. I’ve never wanted jewelry before. Never cared about—symbols. But this—this matters. This represents—choice. Partnership. Love. Us. That matters. That’s—everything.”
“You’re everything,” I said. “Ring is just—symbol. You’re actual everything.”
“Stop being romantic. I’m trying to be—cool. Composed. Not crying constantly.”
“Fail. You’re crying.”
“I know. But happy crying. Chosen crying. That’s—that’s allowed. That’s good even.”
“That’s perfect.”
We planned small wedding. Two months away. City hall ceremony. Dinner after. Twenty people. Family—chosen and blood. Friends. People who’d survived everything with us. Who’d—
Who’d witnessed us becoming. Building. Choosing.
Simple ceremony. Simple celebration. Simple—
Simple public declaration of choosing each other.
That was enough.
That was everything.
That was—
That was marriage. Should be marriage. Would be marriage.
For us.
Chosen. Wanted. Built.
Not arranged. Not obligated. Not—performed.
Just—
Just real.
Real love. Real choice. Real—
Real partnership.
Forever.
However long forever lasted.
We’d choose it.
Every day.
Every moment.
Starting now.
Starting with—
Starting with yes.
She’d said yes.
I’d asked.
And she’d—
She’d chosen me.
Again.
Still.
Always.
That was—
That was everything.
That was love.
That was—
That was us.
Engaged.
Choosing marriage.
Choosing forever.
Choosing—
Choosing each other.
Officially.
Permanently.
Joyfully.
That was—
That was everything we’d fought for.
Everything we’d survived for.
Everything we’d—
Everything we’d built from scandal and disaster and—
And impossible choices.
We’d built this.
Love. Partnership. Future. Marriage. Choice.
All of it.
Together.
Always together.
Forever.
Starting now.
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