Chapter 4
The grand hall of the Lewis estate was alive with soft music and the hum of voices. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished oak tables, where guests clustered in groups, balancing champagne flutes while murmuring with barely concealed curiosity.
Though the vows had been spoken and the priest's blessing given, the air was far from peaceful. Whispers snaked through the crowd like smoke: about Elijah's tardiness, about the mysterious absence of his family, about the contradictions between gossip and what their eyes now beheld.
"He's far too polished to be the wastrel they say," one woman murmured behind her fan."Or perhaps that's the trick," another replied, her brows arched in skepticism.
At the center of this speculation stood Elijah himself. He moved through the reception with composed ease, greeting each guest with a courteous nod, his deep baritone voice steady and unhurried. His dark suit fit him impeccably, accentuating his tall frame and broad shoulders. A sharp jawline softened only by the faintest hint of a smile lent him a commanding presence. His eyes—an unusual shade of steel-grey, seemed to linger on whomever he spoke with, disarming yet unreadable, as though he were always calculating one step further than the conversation at hand.
Across the room, Zoey lounged with a glass of wine in hand, her smirk growing with every ripple of gossip. She thrived on the spectacle, whispering to a cluster of young women, exaggerating details, painting herself as the insider to the most scandalous union of the season. Each time Abigail's name was mentioned, Zoey's voice grew a little sharper, her eyes flicking toward her sister with a mix of envy and satisfaction.
And Abigail, ever the balance to her sister's chaos held herself with poise. Her dress, though simple, flowed around her like soft water, her every gesture careful yet genuine. She spoke little, choosing instead to listen, to absorb, to maintain her composure against the weight of scrutiny. But beneath the calm, her heart thrummed restlessly. Every time her gaze found Elijah across the room, she was struck anew by the dissonance: the familiar warmth she'd glimpsed in his letters versus the mysterious reserve he carried in person.
When the music swelled, Elijah excused himself from his circle of admirers and crossed the room toward her. Conversations paused, eyes followed. He extended his hand.
"May I?" His tone was courteous, but something in his expression—intensely focused, almost searching, made her breath catch.
She accepted, and together they slipped away from the curious stares, into the quieter corridor beyond the hall.
They stopped near a tall arched window overlooking the gardens, the muffled laughter of the reception fading behind them. For a moment, silence stretched, filled only by the distant chirping of night insects.
Elijah turned to her, his hand still lightly resting against hers. His gaze, closer now, was piercing—steel-grey eyes that seemed to weigh her very thoughts.
"You are not what I expected," he said at last. His voice was even, yet tinged with something—respect, curiosity, perhaps even relief.
Abigail arched a brow, steadying herself under his scrutiny. "And what exactly did you expect, Mr. Wright?"
"Elijah," he corrected gently. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it never quite reached his eyes. "I expected hesitation. Fear, perhaps. A woman resigned to an arrangement she could not control. But you… you looked me in the eye at that altar, and you did not flinch. That is rare."
She studied him carefully, taking in the details she had only half imagined while reading his letters. The strong line of his shoulders beneath his tailored suit, the controlled precision in his movements, the calm authority in his voice. He was handsome, undeniably, but it was his restraint that unsettled her most, the sense that his true thoughts were locked behind a wall she was only beginning to glimpse.
"And you," she replied softly, "are not what the world says you are. Or perhaps you are, and you wear the mask well. Which is it?"
He chuckled quietly, the sound low and resonant. "A fair question. The truth, Abigail, is more complicated than gossip allows. I have been many things in my life, some I am not proud of. But I am not the hollow man your sister's stories paint me to be."
Her lips tightened at the mention of Zoey. "She enjoys tearing down what she envies. But I prefer truth to rumor."
Elijah inclined his head, his steel-grey eyes softening for the first time. "Then truth you shall have. In time."
Abigail's gaze lingered on him, and she felt the same pull she had when she first read his words in the letters, an invitation into a world she could not yet define. She straightened, her own confidence rising to meet his.
"You should know," she said firmly, "I am not a woman who leaps blindly into things. I weigh, I consider, I demand honesty. If there is a storm behind those eyes of yours, Elijah, I will find it."
This time, his smile reached his eyes, and for an instant she saw the warmth she had glimpsed long ago in Paris, the boy on the cobblestone steps, grown into a man.
"And that," he murmured, "is precisely why I think fate brought us here."
The grand hall had begun to empty, the laughter and chatter of the reception fading into the gentle hum of the night outside. Candlelight flickered along the walls, casting warm shadows over the polished wooden floor. Abigail and Elijah found themselves alone on a quiet balcony that overlooked the sprawling gardens, where the faint scent of jasmine lingered in the cool evening air.
Elijah leaned against the railing, his posture relaxed yet somehow guarded, as if the night itself demanded he remain vigilant. "I've always liked this time of day," he admitted softly, his eyes tracing the patterns of the garden below. "Quiet, unhurried… it's the only time I can think clearly without the world reminding me of what I'm supposed to be."
Abigail followed his gaze, her fingers brushing against the railing. "I understand that," she said, her voice gentle. "I spend most of my life in numbers, reports, projections… I rarely get a moment where I can just… exist, without someone or something demanding my attention."
He turned to her then, his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. "And yet here you are," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, "standing in the chaos of a wedding day and choosing to be present. Choosing to see me, not the rumors, not the gossip, but me."
Abigail felt her heart skip a beat, a warmth spreading through her chest. She looked down at her hands for a moment before meeting his gaze. "You wrote those letters," she said, "not knowing if anyone would read them. Not knowing if they'd ever matter. But they did. They mattered to me."
A shadow crossed his face, fleeting but real. "I don't know if I've ever done anything right in my life," he admitted quietly. "I made mistakes… bad ones. And the world—my world—hasn't been kind to me. Sometimes I feel like I've been playing a role my whole life, trying to survive the expectations and whispers of others."
Abigail's inner voice stirred. This is the boy in Paris. The boy I defended. The boy who trusted his mother's words and lived in letters. All of him is here, in front of me, scarred and unsure, yet still capable of so much more.
"You're not just surviving," she said, her tone firm yet compassionate. "You've carried yourself through more than most could endure, and you've held on to the parts of yourself that matter. The letters, the memories, they're proof that you've never stopped caring, never stopped hoping. That's not survival. That's strength."
He looked at her then, and for the first time, his walls seemed to soften. "And you," he said, voice low, "you've been strong too. More than I could ever imagine. You've taken on burdens that aren't even yours, faced judgment and humiliation, and yet… you stand here. Still kind, still steadfast."
Abigail's gaze softened. I've faced challenges, yes, but not like him. He's lived a lifetime of shadows before I even entered his world. "I stand here because it matters," she replied. "Because what's happening now, this connection we have, it's real. And I can't let it slip away just because the world insists on chaos."
A pause settled between them, filled with the quiet rustle of leaves and distant murmurs from the reception below. Elijah reached out slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Do you ever wonder," he asked, "if things happen for a reason? That even the chaos, the mistakes, the accidents… they lead us to moments like this?"
Abigail considered this, feeling the weight of the past weeks, months, even years, converge into this single night. "I do," she admitted. "I think that every choice, every small act, even the ones that seemed meaningless… they've brought us here. To this balcony. To this moment. And I… I don't want to waste it."
He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, as if he were committing the moment to memory. "Then let's not waste it," he whispered. And in the way he said it,earnest, gentle, yet tinged with the shadows of a lifetime of regret, Abigail felt a profound understanding pass between them.
The night deepened around them, the stars reflecting in the dark glass of the distant fountain, and Elijah began to speak of his past—not just the letters, but the life that followed the Paris memory, the loneliness, the rumors, the mistakes he had made in attempts to survive. Abigail listened, asking gentle questions, piecing together the puzzle of his life while revealing her own truths, her fears, her hopes for Grace, and her careful balance between responsibility and heart.
And in that exchange, Abigail realized, the boy she once saved and the man before her were the same, yet transformed. And in seeing him fully, she also saw herself, the strength, the courage, and the compassion that had brought her to this balcony, to this moment, to him.
By the time the candles along the railing burned low, they had shared laughter, tears, and unspoken understanding. Elijah's guarded demeanor had softened into one of trust, and Abigail's careful analytical nature had blossomed into an empathy that matched his vulnerability.
The distant music of the reception drifted upward, faint but insistent, and Elijah finally let out a slow exhale. "Thank you," he said simply, "for seeing me. For choosing to understand me. I've waited a long time for someone to do that."
Abigail smiled, warmth radiating from her chest. "And I've waited a long time to finally find someone worth understanding. I think… maybe we've both been waiting for each other, all along."
The night held its breath around them, the garden a silent witness to the beginning of their shared path—a path built not on gossip, rumor, or expectation, but on the delicate, deliberate understanding of two lives finally meeting, fully and unguarded.
The cool night air clung to Abigail's skin as she reluctantly tore her gaze away from the starlit garden. Elijah walked beside her, his hand brushing hers almost by accident but with deliberate intimacy, anchoring her to the present. "We should go back," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "The night isn't over yet."
Abigail nodded, smoothing the front of her dress as they stepped back into the ballroom. Music floated softly through the air, the earlier clamor of laughter and chatter replaced with a more subdued hum as most guests had begun to leave. The flicker of candlelight danced over polished floors and draped tables, casting long shadows that seemed to exaggerate the whispers and sideways glances that trailed them.
Zoey sat near the dessert table, an exaggeratedly polite smile plastered across her face as she nibbled at a canapé, already murmuring into her phone. Abigail could feel her sister's eyes on her, a mix of envy, curiosity, and mischief, and she stiffened slightly. Elijah's hand found hers again, gentle but firm. "Ignore her," he said quietly, sensing the tension. "She doesn't matter here—not tonight."
Abigail allowed herself a small, private smile. He already understands me more than anyone else in this room. She exhaled, releasing some of the anxiety that had followed her like a shadow all day. Yet the murmurs and sideways glances of the lingering guests were unavoidable. Even with Elijah beside her, whispers of scandal still floated in the air—some speculating about the groom's mysterious past, others marveling at Abigail's composure despite the recent gossip.
William approached, his face a mixture of pride and lingering concern. "Abigail, Elijah… I hope you've had a moment to yourselves," he said warmly, though his eyes flicked subtly toward Zoey, clearly aware of her interference. "You've both carried a lot today, and I… I just want you to know we're here for you."
Abigail squeezed her father's hand. "Thank you, Dad. That means more than you know." She glanced at Mrs. Wright, who gave a small nod of approval from across the room, her hands clasped, lips pressed together in satisfaction at how gracefully Abigail had managed the day.
Elijah's gaze followed Abigail as she moved through the room, and he leaned closer, speaking softly. "Even with everyone watching, you're radiant. Unshaken. That… that takes courage."
Abigail laughed quietly, a little self-conscious. "I can't say I always feel courageous," she admitted. "Sometimes I just… focus on what I can control." She paused, looking at him with a more vulnerable expression. "Like Grace. Like these letters. Like… us, right now."
He nodded, squeezing her hand. "I get that. And I want to know it all—from the letters, the Paris memory, everything. I want to understand you, Abigail, just like I hope you'll try to understand me."
She let her fingers linger against his. "I already am. Every word you wrote… every story, every memory in those letters, I feel it. Like I've been living a part of your life alongside you."
Elijah's expression softened, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face, mirroring the gesture from the balcony. "Then maybe that's why this feels… different," he whispered. "Because I've been waiting to be seen, and now I am. Not as a rumor, not as a scandal, but as me."
Abigail's inner voice whispered the same truth: And I've been waiting for someone who needed to be seen, just as much as I needed someone to understand me.
The sound of distant laughter drew their attention to Zoey, who had cornered a small group of curious guests, regaling them with exaggerated stories about Abigail's 'misjudged' choice. Abigail's jaw tightened, but she didn't react. Instead, Elijah stepped slightly in front of her, a protective shadow, and whispered, "Let her chatter. We know the truth. That's enough."
She exhaled slowly, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders. "You're right," she said. "It doesn't matter what they think."
Minutes later, the last of the guests departed, leaving the newlyweds alone with the echoing space of the grand hall. Elijah held the door open for Abigail, and they stepped into the waiting car that would take them to their honeymoon suite. The city lights glimmered like a constellation below as they drove, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the pavement matching the quiet thrum of their hearts.
Abigail finally allowed herself to speak freely, leaning her head against Elijah's shoulder. "I can't believe we're actually here. Married. All of it feels… surreal."
Elijah's arm wrapped around her gently. "It's just the beginning," he said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. "And whatever happens, gossip, mistakes, or misunderstandings—we'll face it together. I promise."
Her inner thoughts reflected a mix of relief and anticipation. This is what I've been waiting for—a partner who sees me, understands me, and still chooses to stand beside me. Everything else… all the whispers, the rumors… they fade when it's just us.
Outside, the city slept, indifferent to the night's small dramas and triumphs, while inside the car, two lives entwined more deeply than they had ever imagined, ready to start a new chapter together one defined not by the shadows of the past, but by the understanding, trust, and connection they had discovered tonight.
The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the honeymoon suite as Abigail closed the door behind them, the golden city lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room smelled faintly of fresh flowers, and the bedspread gleamed like satin under the dim, ambient lamps. Abigail set down her luggage, her movements careful, deliberate, almost ritualistic. She had always found order calming, a counterweight to the chaos of her professional life.
Elijah lingered by the window, his back straight, hands clasped behind him. He looked out over the city for a moment before turning to her. "It's… quieter here than I expected," he said softly, the stern edge in his voice softened by the intimacy of the moment.
Abigail gave a small nod, smoothing the folds of her dress. "It is. But it's nice. Peaceful." She hesitated, unsure how to bridge the gap between them, the wedding adrenaline fading, leaving only the quiet awkwardness of two people discovering each other in a new context.
Elijah approached slowly, careful not to startle her. "Abigail… I know today was… a lot," he said, his eyes sincere. "The ceremony, the gossip, the scrutiny, it could have been… overwhelming."
She swallowed, her analytical mind already organizing the thoughts swirling in her chest. "It was," she admitted. "But… it also made me realize that I can trust you. That you… don't take advantage of situations. You're… well-mannered, considerate. Even now."
He nodded, a faint smile brushing his lips. "Good. Because I need you to know something. If at any point, you feel this marriage is a burden, if you feel… trapped or unhappy, I will accept it. Openly. Honestly. I won't… pressure you or demand you stay."
Abigail paused, studying him. Her inner voice flickered with quiet admiration. He's honest. Stern, but honest. And… somehow, I believe him. She felt the weight of the moment but also a flicker of courage. "Elijah," she said, stepping closer, "I don't… I'm not the type to back out when things get difficult. I need to know you, truly know you, but I also… I see that you are someone I can trust. That honesty… that integrity, it matters to me."
He inclined his head, eyes softening. "Then we start there. No pretenses. No obligations beyond what we choose together. I want you to see me as I am, Abigail. Flaws, struggles, everything."
Abigail settled onto a chair by the small writing desk, leaning forward slightly, her hands folded neatly. "Then let's start… with the letters. The ones your mother gave me. They've painted part of the picture, but I want to hear it from you. The real story."
Elijah exhaled, a shadow crossing his features. He moved to sit across from her, keeping a respectful distance. "You've read the letters… you've seen the boy I was. The one who was—let's just say—vulnerable. Naive, often afraid. Those days… they shaped me, but not always for the better."
Abigail listened intently, her analytical mind noting the nuances in his voice. the pauses, the subtle shifts. "And… the Paris memory," she asked softly. "The day I saw you getting bullied, was that… connected to what you're saying now?"
Elijah's jaw tightened slightly, his gaze dropping for a moment. "Yes. That boy… I was proud of small victories, like surviving that day. But as time passed, life, circumstances, pushed me into decisions I'm not proud of. Letters were my way of reaching for understanding, for connection, without having to explain to anyone else. I was afraid people would misjudge me, just like they do now."
Abigail's inner thoughts softened. I understand that fear. And I've lived with mine too. She met his eyes. "Elijah, everyone can get lost sometimes. Circumstances can lead us down paths we never expected. But… what matters is how we confront them, how we try to return to the person we want to be."
He nodded, looking at her with an intensity that made her heart quicken. "Exactly. That's why I needed honesty now, before anything else. I don't want you to marry me under illusions. You deserve to see me fully, even if parts are… difficult."
Her lips curved slightly into a small, assured smile. "Then I choose to see you. I choose to know you… before anything else. I need that foundation. And I also… know that I'm capable of facing difficulties, of understanding, of supporting you. That's who I am."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "And that is exactly why I believe this… this can work. Because you're not just compliant, you're deliberate. You choose with purpose, and that… that inspires me to be my best self for you."
Abigail let out a quiet laugh, a mixture of relief and nervous energy. "I never expected to feel this… connected on a night like tonight. And yet… I do."
Elijah's voice softened further, tinged with vulnerability. "I feel it too. That sense of connection… it's strange, considering we've known each other only briefly. But it feels real. Necessary."
She leaned back, studying him as the words settled between them. This is what I've needed… honesty, and someone who respects me enough to offer it before anything else. She allowed herself a moment to take in his presence, stern, yet gentle; strong, yet vulnerable. "Then… we'll take this slowly. Learn each other. No expectations beyond the truth."
Elijah smiled faintly, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Slowly. Yes. That's all I ask. And if we ever stumble… we communicate. Always."
Abigail nodded, feeling a rare warmth settle in her chest. We're starting something real. Something built on truth, not obligation or gossip. That… is worth everything.
The room fell quiet, the city lights casting long, gentle shadows across the walls. Outside, the night carried on, indifferent. Inside, two souls sat together, discreet, tentative, yet fully present, beginning the first true chapter of their marriage with honesty, patience, and the quiet knowledge that they were, finally, not alone.
Morning light spilled through the tall windows of their suite, brushing the satin sheets and catching the slight shimmer of Abigail's hair as she stirred awake. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant city sounds drifting through the glass. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before realizing Elijah was still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, staring out at the skyline.
"Morning," she murmured, her voice soft but steady.
Elijah turned, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Morning," he replied, standing to retrieve a small tray he had prepared, coffee, two glasses of water, and a plate with croissants and fruit. "Thought we could have breakfast here before the day starts. I know… even on vacation mornings, routines matter."
Abigail tilted her head, a small laugh escaping. "You've planned this already?"
"Not exactly planned," he said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "But I do believe that structure keeps us grounded. And I want you grounded—comfortably."
She sat up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, studying him. His dark suit from the previous night had been replaced by casual clothes, but there was an inherent elegance in the way he moved, an understated precision that reminded her of his letters and the careful discipline he had always seemed to possess. He's meticulous even when off-duty, she thought. And he does it without ever making it seem controlling.
They ate slowly, a quiet companionship settling between them. Occasionally, Abigail glanced at him and noticed the small details she might never have observed in the chaos of work: the way he paused, considering every sip of coffee; the way his fingers tapped lightly against the table when he was thinking; the soft vulnerability behind his eyes that mirrored the boy she had glimpsed in the letters.
After a pause, she finally asked, "Elijah… yesterday, when we talked about your past… I didn't get the full story about your teenage years after Paris. What happened between then and now? How did you end up the way you did?"
He exhaled slowly, pushing the plate aside. "It wasn't easy. After Paris… I had to navigate a lot of challenges on my own. My father was absent most of the time, focused on business, and my mother… she did what she thought was best. I made mistakes—poor choices, associations that only complicated things. I became distant, guarded, and… yes, the social rumors you found? They're shadows of those years. Not the full story."
Abigail leaned back, her analytical mind weaving together the fragments she had from the letters and the recent social media chaos. "So you were… misunderstood. Misrepresented."
"Yes," he said quietly. "And I didn't know how to fix it until… until I could be honest with someone. That someone is you, now. You're the first person I've shown this part of myself to willingly. Not through letters, not through social media, not through avoidance. You."
Abigail's chest warmed. She reached out, resting her hand lightly on his. "Elijah… you've been through a lot. But I can see the person you are now. Strong, reflective, disciplined… willing to face mistakes. And I… I've made choices too. I protect those I care about. I analyze, I anticipate, but I also… forgive. We're not perfect. But we can… navigate it together."
He looked at her, his gaze intense yet gentle. "That… is exactly why I feel this marriage can work. Because you're not afraid of reality. You see the whole picture, not just what's convenient or easy. You're grounded, Abigail. And you don't just say you'll stand beside someone, you do it."
She allowed herself a small smile, feeling both the weight of responsibility and the relief of connection. "And you… you don't just ask for trust, you earn it. That's rare, Elijah. That's… why I want to know everything about you. So I can support, not just observe."
He nodded, a brief silence falling between them as they absorbed the depth of their words. Then he gestured toward the window. "Later today, my mother will call, and I know your family will check in as well. We'll have to navigate that, too."
Abigail chuckled softly. "Already anticipating it, aren't you?"
"I am," he admitted. "But I'm not worried. We'll handle it together. You're practical; I'm… careful. That combination works."
As the morning sun rose higher, they lingered, talking about small things first—future plans, trips, work challenges, even the simplest mundane topics, before returning to the heavier discussions of past struggles, fears, and expectations. It was not a passionate or hurried conversation, but a deliberate, intimate mapping of each other's inner worlds.
Abigail realized how much she appreciated his honesty and restraint. He was firm but never demanding; protective but never controlling. Elijah realized how much he respected her clarity, her intellect, and her determination to understand fully before committing emotionally.
Their honeymoon was not only a respite, it was the first real step into a shared life, with the quiet intimacy of two people learning, revealing, and trusting each other in a way that promised a foundation far stronger than mere romance.