Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~8 min read
[ASPEN POV – Sixteen Months After Wedding Scandal]
Planning our wedding was—opposite. Completely opposite. Of Khatri wedding I’d crashed.
That wedding: 300 guests. Orchestra. Elaborate venue. Performance. Arrangement. Everything I’d destroyed.
Our wedding: 20 people. City hall. Dinner after. Choice. Love. Everything we were building.
“Do we need wedding planner?” Marius asked. Joking. Mostly.
“God no. We need—simplicity. Authenticity. Us planning this. Not performance coordinator making us look good. Just—us choosing everything. Deliberately. Meaningfully.”
Every choice mattered. Every choice was—statement. About who we were. What we valued. What—
What marriage meant to us.
Venue: City hall. Simple ceremony. Legal ceremony. No frills. No—spectacle. Just official. Real. Witnessed.
“It’s perfect,” Bailey said. “Anti-Khatri wedding. Everything that wedding wasn’t. Simple. Real. About love instead of—performance and business arrangement.”
“That’s exactly what we want. Anti-wedding. Real wedding.”
Guest list was hardest part. Not because we had too many people. Because we had—complicated people.
Octavian wanted to come. “If you’ll have me. I understand if not. If my presence would—taint it. Remind you of everything terrible. But I’d like—I’d like to witness you choosing correctly. Choosing love. Choosing—what I didn’t. If you’ll let me.”
“You can come,” Marius said. “You’re trying. Changing. I want—I want you to see what marriage should be. What choosing looks like. Maybe it’ll—help. Your healing. Your understanding.”
Priya was coming from Mumbai. With Aditya. “I want you to meet him. Want you to see—what choosing looks like. After thirty-five years. After—everything. I want you to witness us. And I want to witness you. Choosing right. From beginning.”
Allegra sent regrets from Paris. “I can’t return to England yet. Media would—destroy me. Revive scandal. But I’m sending gift. And love. And—gratitude. For showing me choosing was possible. Was worth it. Congratulations. To both of you.”
Mom wouldn’t remember the wedding. Wouldn’t understand. But I wanted her there anyway.
“Even if she doesn’t know what’s happening?” Marius asked gently.
“Especially because she won’t. Because I’ll remember for both of us. I’ll remember—she witnessed me marrying person I love. Person who loves me. Even if she can’t remember. I will. That’s—that’s enough.”
We wrote our own vows. Carefully. Deliberately. Every word mattering.
“What do you want to promise?” Marius asked. “What vows—what commitment feels real? Meaningful? True?”
I thought about it. Long time. What did marriage mean? What was I promising? What—
What did choosing forever actually mean?
“I want to promise—trying,” I said. “Not perfection. Not—never fighting. Never struggling. Not—endless happiness. But trying. Every day. Choosing you every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m scared. Even when—when running feels safer. I want to promise—staying. Fighting for us. Being brave enough to have this. To keep this. To—to believe I deserve this. That’s what I want to promise. Trying. Choosing. Staying.”
“That’s perfect. That’s—exactly right. That’s what marriage should be. Not—performance of perfection. But promise to try. To choose. To stay. Even when it’s hard.”
“What do you want to promise?”
“Same. Choosing you. Seeing you. Really seeing you. Not—managing you or saving you or fixing you. Just—being with you. Partner with you. Loving you exactly as you are. Not trying to change you. Not—caging you. Just—loving you. Free you. Complicated you. All of you. That’s what I want to promise. Seeing you. Choosing you. Loving you. As you are.”
We wrote vows separately. Private. But—aligned. Both about choice. Both about—staying. Trying. Being brave enough to have love.
Dress shopping with Bailey was—emotional. Unexpectedly emotional.
“What kind of dress do you want?” she asked.
“Not white. Not—traditional. Not bride costume. Just—dress I feel beautiful in. Dress that’s me. Not performance. Just—me getting married. Being myself. Choosing love.”
I found dress in vintage shop. Simple. Cream colored. Tea length. Nothing spectacular. Nothing—bridal. Just beautiful dress. That made me feel—beautiful. Myself. Real.
“That’s the one,” Bailey said immediately. “That’s—you. Beautiful. Real. Not performing. Just—Aspen getting married. Perfect.”
“It’s not very bridal.”
“It’s perfectly you. That’s more important. This isn’t about performing bride. It’s about being yourself. Choosing love. That dress—that’s you doing that.”
Marius wore suit. Simple suit. Nothing elaborate. “I wore tuxedo last time,” he said. “For arranged wedding. For performance. This time—I want simple. Real. Me marrying person I love. Not—groom costume. Just—me.”
We planned dinner carefully. Small restaurant. Private room. Twenty people. Family and friends. People who’d survived everything with us. People who’d—
Who’d witnessed us becoming. Building. Choosing.
Menu was—mix. British and Indian. Our cultures. Our families. Our—everything. Together. Blended. Chosen.
“No speeches,” Marius decided. “No—performance. No toasts that go on forever. Just—dinner. Conversation. Celebration. Existing together. That’s enough.”
“What about first dance?”
“Do we need one? Do we want one? Or is that—tradition we’re keeping because we think we should?”
I thought about it. “I want first dance. But not—performed first dance. Just—us dancing. To song we love. Not—spectacle. Just—us. Together. Celebrating.”
“What song?”
We chose song together. Not wedding song. Not—traditional. Just song that meant something. Song we’d played that first night in hotel. That first choice. That—
That first real moment.
Song about choosing. About staying. About—being brave enough to love.
Perfect.
Week before wedding, I panicked. “What if this is mistake? What if—what if we’re recreating trauma? What if getting married reminds us of—everything terrible? What if we can’t do this without thinking about Khatri wedding? About scandal? About—”
“Then we think about it,” Marius said calmly. “Then we remember—we survived that. Built from that. Created—this from that. That wedding was arrangement. Ours is choice. That’s—that’s complete opposite. That’s revenge even. Best revenge. Building something real from something false. Building—love from arrangement. Chaos from order. Truth from performance. That’s what we’re doing. We’re not recreating trauma. We’re—transcending it. Transforming it. Using it to build something better.”
He was right. Of course he was right.
This wasn’t trauma recreation. This was—reclamation. Taking back wedding. Taking back marriage. Taking back—
Taking back choice. Public choice. Witnessed choice. Legal choice.
That was powerful. That was—revolutionary even. Taking institution that had trapped us and using it to—free us. To celebrate us. To—
To declare publicly: We choose each other. We choose love. We choose—this life. Together. Forever.
That was worth celebrating.
Night before wedding, Bailey came over. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrified. Excited. Certain. Uncertain. All of it. Everything. I’m—I’m getting married tomorrow. After everything. After crashing wedding. After scandal. After—everything. I’m getting married. To man I love. Man who loves me. That’s—that’s extraordinary. Impossible. Perfect. Terrifying.”
“You deserve this. You know that right? You deserve—happiness. Marriage. Love. Future. All of it. You don’t have to keep being surprised that good things are happening. You can just—have them. Believe you deserve them. That’s—that’s allowed.”
“I’m trying to believe that. Still learning. But—trying.”
“That’s enough. Trying is always enough.”
Marius stayed at Rhys’s apartment that night. Tradition. Or—choice. Our choice. Wanting morning apart. Building anticipation. Choosing—reunion. At altar. At ceremony. At—
At choosing moment.
I couldn’t sleep. Too excited. Too nervous. Too—
Too everything.
This time tomorrow I’d be married. Legally married. Chosen married. Real married.
Not arranged. Not performed. Not—
Not cage.
But freedom. Partnership. Love.
That was marriage. Should be marriage. Would be marriage.
For us.
Tomorrow.
Finally.
After everything.
We’d be married.
Husband and wife. Partners. Chosen family. Legal family. Real family.
Forever family.
However long forever lasted.
We’d find out.
Together.
Always together.
Starting tomorrow.
At city hall.
In cream dress and simple suit.
With twenty people watching.
With vows about choosing and staying and trying.
With—
With love.
Real love. Chosen love. Brave love.
The kind worth everything. Worth—
Worth crashing weddings for. Worth scandal for. Worth—
Worth building entire life for.
That was what tomorrow was.
Declaration. Celebration. Confirmation.
Of what we already knew. What we’d already chosen. What we’d—
What we’d already built.
But making it official. Legal. Witnessed. Public.
Declaring to world: We choose this. We choose each other. We choose—love over everything else.
That was worth celebrating.
Worth staying up all night for. Nervous and excited and—
And ready.
Finally ready.
To be married. To choose forever. To—
To begin officially what we’d already begun.
Partnership. Love. Life. Together.
Forever.
Starting tomorrow.
At city hall.
With simple ceremony and complicated love.
With past survived and future chosen.
With—
With everything we’d fought for. Everything we’d built. Everything we’d—
Everything we’d become.
Together.
Finally.
Officially.
Tomorrow.
Our wedding day.
Chosen wedding. Real wedding. Our wedding.
Perfect.
Finally.
Completely.
Ours.
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