Page 70 of His Untouchable Heart

His wife stepped forward then, a tall, elegant woman with silver curls and a discerning eye. She paused beneath the mantle, tilting her head as she looked up.

“A Lady and Gentleman in Black,” she said. “It’s good to see it where it belongs.”

I followed her gaze to the painting—restored, reframed, and finally at peace. A part of history reclaimed.

She turned toward Anthony and me with a smile. “I’ve had my eye onThe Circus Rider, actually. The Devereux Gallery could use the funds, and it would look stunning in my husband’s study.”

A ripple of polite laughter moved through the group.

Anthony leaned toward me and murmured, “She’s not wrong. It would look better than all that sports memorabilia he insists on hanging.”

Before I could respond, the judge cleared his throat, already walking toward the fireplace with gentle authority.

“Well then,” he said, gesturing for everyone to join him. “Let’s gather round. It’s time to marry these two very patient people.”

The guests slowly fell into place—some with glasses still in hand, others brushing crumbs from their sleeves, one of the interns from the gallery snapping a quick photo before being elbowed by someone more polite.

It was casual. Light. Unscripted. Perfect.

As I took Anthony’s hand and stepped into place in front of the fireplace, I caught a glimpse of Juliette just off to the side.

She was trying, with visible effort,notto gawk at Damian, who stood tall and perfectly relaxed near the French doors. He looked unfairly good in a navy jacket and open-collared shirt, his arms crossed, listening intently to Louisa explain something about tax incentives for galleries that donate rescued art to nonprofit museums.

Louisa gestured with one manicured hand, completely at ease. Damian nodded, his expression polite—but there was a flicker of something amused in his eyes like he knew exactly what was going on behind Juliette’s flustered attempts at indifference.

I smiled to myself.

This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a beginning.

And in the most unexpected way, it was starting to feel like more than mine.

The ceremony was short and sweet—exactly how I wanted it.

Juliette was holding Julian when he stirred during the vows, letting out the tiniest whimper, just as Anthony was promising to honor all my favorite takeout orders for life. Everyone laughed, and Anthony—without missing a beat—leaned down and pressed a kiss to our son’s forehead, then mine.

It was casual, intimate, nothing like the perfectly rehearsed ceremonies I used to watch in glossy event videos with envy and disbelief. This was real. Messy. Warm. Unscripted. Ours.

When the final “I now pronounce you husband and wife” rang out from Judge Valencia’s steady voice, the room erupted in soft cheers and clapping. Anthony pulled me close, kissed me slow and certain, and the world narrowed to just the two of us—again, still, always. “Thank you for rescuing my broken heart. I love you,” he whispered before kissing me again.

I felt my eyes sting as Juliette, who’d somehow managed not to cry until now, swiped at her cheeks with a silk handkerchief that probably belonged to Damian. (He didn’t seem to mind.)

It was only when we stepped back and raised our glasses that Damian cleared his throat and held his own high.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Moreau,” he said, his voice smooth but clear enough to carry over the clink of crystal and the rustle of guests. “And if no one objects, I’d like to invite everyone aboardThe Oracle—my new yacht—for a sunset cruise to celebrate their marriage.”

Juliette, mid-sip of champagne, choked.

“You have anewyacht?” she squeaked, lowering her glass with both hands like she suddenly didn’t trust gravity.

Damian’s mouth twitched. “Well. Newish. It’s not the same one you remember.”

Someone laughed—then everyone did.

The judge raised his brow. “I officiate a wedding and get a sunset cruise? This might be my favorite case on record.”

As the room began to stir and guests filtered toward the patio doors that led down to the dock, I felt Anthony’s arm slip around my waist.

“You good?” he asked, his lips brushing my temple.

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