Chapter 51

The sun had risen differently that morning.

Not louder, not brighter… but softer. Golden in a way that didn’t demand attention, but simply gave its warmth, quietly. Like even the sky itself knew what today meant.

Inside Casa Al-Gaddafi, every corridor buzzed in hushed reverence. The thick curtains of the eastern wing had been drawn back early, letting light pour through the silk-tinted windows, bathing the bridal suite in a honeyed, golden hue.

Lamia sat before the grand, baroque vanity. Her posture was regal, her spine straight, her hands delicately resting on her lap, but her eyes were distant, caught somewhere between memory and anticipation. Her skin already shimmered with the faintest layer of dew-kissed primer, a team of stylists moving around her with careful, reverent precision. The air smelled of rosewater, oud, and powder.

Her thick raven hair, usually braided or left untamed, was now being curled and smoothed section by section. A soft wave had started to frame her cheekbones, adding to the delicateness of her already striking features. Her lashes were curled and coated, lips tinted a soft fig-rose, and her eyes, those sharp obsidian eyes, were lined with just enough kohl to make them even more arresting.

She didn’t speak.

She hadn’t said much since she woke before dawn, surrounded by the soft rustling of silk sheets and the whisper of her mother’s voice reminding her to eat.

Her phone lay untouched on the corner table, turned face-down. The last message from Rani had come hours ago, just after midnight.

“Tomorrow, I become your wife again. This time, because I want to. Not because I have to. I love you, Lamia.”

Lamia hadn’t replied.

She couldn’t.

The weight in her chest hadn’t been sadness, it was joy, thick and full, pressing against her ribs like a secret too big to contain.

Across the room, standing quietly in her soft camel-toned abaya, was her father, the King of the Al-Gaddafi clan. His face was calm, but his eyes were wet. He hadn’t moved much, just stood behind her daughter, watching.

Pride wasn’t loud in her. It glowed silently from the way his hands were clasped in front of him, from the way he nodded ever so slightly every time Lamia met her gaze in the mirror.

There were no grand declarations.

Just presence.

A father who had watched his daughter rise from the darkest of tempests to become the woman before her now strong, soft, chosen, choosing.

The head stylist stepped back for a moment, tilting her head and gently adjusting one of the pearl pins on Lamia’s temple. “Perfect,” she whispered to herself, almost like she feared disturbing the quiet reverence in the air.

Lamia finally blinked and exhaled… shallowly.

She looked at her reflection. She looked like herself. But something was different.

The girl who once swore off love… the woman who once built fortresses out of ego… she was no longer behind those eyes.

Now, there sat someone undone and rebuilt.

Lamia reached up and touched the edge of her veil. The fabric was still untouched, waiting for the final moment. It was soft as breath, custom woven from champagne-gold silk, beaded with mother-of-pearl that shimmered like water under light.

The gown, still hanging in its protective casing near the door, had been flown in days ago from Stefano Policarpio himself designed only after she and Rani both agreed they wanted to wear creations that felt powerful, feminine, and free. Not traditional. Not borrowed. Theirs.

A knock came at the door.

Soft. Twice.

The stylist looked toward the door, then at Lamia.

But Lamia didn’t move.

Her father did.

He opened the door slowly, and one of the younger housemaids whispered something. Then handed him a small, flat box cream-colored, tied with nude ribbon.

The moment her father turned and held it out to her, Lamia knew.

Rani.

Lamia slowly unwrapped the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on satin, was a single bracelet.

It was simple… ivory and gold links, fastened with a tiny charm at the center. A date carved into it in Arabic script. The day they met.

Not the day of the wedding. Not the day they kissed. Not the day Faisal was born.

The day they met.

The day everything started.

A folded note was tucked beside it. She didn’t need to read it now. She’d read it later, when everything was quiet again.

Lamia touched the charm. Then smiled.

It was small. But she understood.

This was Rani’s way of saying, I haven’t forgotten who we were. But I’m so grateful for who we became.

Her babba watched, eyes brimming.

Then, he walked toward his daughter without a word, and gently fastened the bracelet around Lamia’s wrist.

They stood like that for a while, just the two of them, in the quiet before everything began.

And as the makeup team gave the final touches and the stylists reached for the gown, the scent of roses grew stronger, floating in through the balcony.

Outside, the gardens were being filled with the murmur of guests, the flutter of petals, and the hum of strings being tuned.

The moment passed like a breath caught between generations.

The bracelet now sat perfectly on Lamia’s wrist, the soft gold catching the reflection of the windowpane, twinkling faintly like a star had been laced into her skin.

She kept her gaze down, brushing her thumb over the tiny charm, breathing quietly. But she knew her father was still watching her.

Still standing behind her with the kind of silence only a father could hold.

Then…

“My daughter,” her mama said softly.

Lamia turned her head, not all the way, just enough to glance at her through the mirror.

Her mother’s voice was not thick with tears. It didn’t tremble or waver. It was strong, even, and sure. But it was heavy with a pride so full, it anchored the room.

“I’m so proud of you.”

The room paused.

Not the stylists, not the makeup artists, but time itself.

Lamia didn’t speak.

Not right away.

Her mother took a slow step closer. She reached for Lamia’s shoulders, her touch gentle but grounding. She didn’t adjust the gown or smooth her hair like she used to when Lamia was a little girl getting ready for Eid.

She just touched her.

Held her there.

“You’ve become the woman I always prayed for you to be,” her mama continued, voice quiet, intimate. “Not because you’re perfect. But because you’ve grown into someone who knows how to love.”

The words didn’t crash. They didn’t shatter Lamia like waves.

Instead, they melted into her, like honey into warm bread, like perfume into linen.

She kept her eyes forward, locked on her reflection.

But the woman in the mirror blinked more slowly now. Her breath caught more deeply in her chest.

“I used to worry about you,” her mama said. “You were always so proud. So sharp. Even when you were small, you had this fire that frightened me. Not because it was wrong, but because I knew the world didn’t always treat girls with fire kindly.”

She smiled gently, smoothing a hand down Lamia’s back. “I thought maybe you would never let anyone in. Maybe you would marry, maybe have children, but maybe no one would ever really see you. Not the way you needed.”

And then, her voice dropped lower. More tender.

“But she did.”

Lamia’s throat tightened.

“She saw you, habibti. Even when you were cruel. Even when you were scared. Even when you didn’t deserve it. She still chose to stay.”

Lamia couldn’t speak. Her jaw clenched once, subtly.

Her mama leaned forward, placing her cheek against the side of Lamia’s head, her arms curling softly around her shoulders.

“And you learned to stay, too.”

Silence.

Just their two reflections, mother and daughter, dressed in generations of strength and softness, holding each other under the weight of everything they’d survived.

Lamia closed her eyes.

Not to cry.

But to breathe.

To feel.

To anchor this moment in her bones.

Her mama straightened again, brushing a finger gently at the edge of Lamia’s eyeliner. “Don’t smudge that,” she teased, voice lighter now, teasing affection wrapped in every syllable.

Lamia gave a small smile.

That rare kind, the kind that came not from joy alone, but from a kind of full-circle peace.

“Are you ready?” her mama asked, moving to the chair beside her as the gown was being unzipped from its casing.

Lamia nodded slowly. “I am.”

“You’re sure?”

Another pause.

Then Lamia met her mama’s eyes in the mirror and said, not with hesitation, not with fear, but with conviction,
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Her mama smiled. A real one now. The kind that reached her eyes and brought with it generations of women behind her, strong, difficult, elegant women who chose love even when it was hard.

“I believe you,” she said, standing once more.

She walked over to the window, adjusting the curtain just slightly as she peered outside. From there, you could just barely hear the early string quartet beginning their warm-up near the garden.

“Soon,” she whispered. “You’ll walk to her.”

Lamia looked down at her bracelet again.

——

The cream-colored Rolls-Royce came to a gentle halt outside the church nestled among the ridges of Tagaytay, its vintage silhouette glowing against the soft, late afternoon light. The wind was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and petals from the thousand blooms arranged along the arched entry. White roses and pale orchids trailed down every pillar like falling snow. There was music playing faintly from inside, string instruments rehearsing in whispers.

The driver stepped out and opened the door.

A hush rippled across the guests when Lamia emerged.

She stepped down carefully, the sunlight catching on the beadwork of her satin dress, each shimmer sewn by hand, every thread a quiet story of tradition, love, and transformation. Her veil flowed behind her, long and soft as mist, held in place by a delicate crystal comb. Her heels clicked softly on the cobblestone as she stood tall, her hands delicately brushing her skirt into place, her heart hammering under her ribs.

People were everywhere.

Some she recognized from their side, her uncles, old family friends, politicians who knew her Jiddi, business magnates who had once held her as a baby during banquets she didn’t remember. But there were far more she didn’t know. And it didn’t take long to realize they were from Rani’s side, women in baro’t saya and batik dresses, men in embroidered polo barongs, young cousins running around the courtyard with little satin baskets meant for flower petals.

She didn’t flinch.

With quiet elegance, Lamia moved through the gathering.

Her hands folded in front of her, she bowed slightly to each guest she passed. “Salam po,” she murmured gently. “It’s an honor.” Even when she didn’t know their names, she met their eyes. Offered the respect of someone trying. Even when an old lola clutched her arm too tightly, or when a titah looked her over with lingering, curious eyes, Lamia stayed composed. She kissed the hand of an elderly woman who was probably Rani’s grandaunt, though she didn’t want to guess wrong. She smiled at a group of young women who had been whispering and staring, clearly cousins or second cousins.

“Thank you for coming,” she said softly, over and over again. Her voice was steady. Her posture unshakable. Her presence… graceful.

Inside, the musicians began to play something sweeter, something slower. The murmurs quieted.

But Lamia knew.

This wasn’t the moment yet.

She wasn’t the one walking down the aisle today.

It would be Rani.

She would be waiting.

Waiting at the altar.

Like every storybook reversal of roles, every rewrite of tradition, every vow they had chosen for themselves,Rani would walk toward her. And she would stand still for once, grounded, anchored, ready to receive all the love she never thought she deserved.

So she entered early.

As she stepped into the church, the hush followed her like a shawl. The sunlight streaming from the stained glass windows warmed her skin, the scent of eucalyptus and candle wax rising gently in the still air. She walked slowly to the front, careful not to trip on her gown, guided gently by one of the coordinators.

Then she stood there.

In front of everyone.

Alone for now.

She looked around the space, faces turned toward her, eyes glistening, some curious, others moved. But two chairs sat empty at the front row. Marked with white silk sashes. Little golden frames rested on each seat, Jidda and Jiddi.

Her heart dipped.

They couldn’t come.

Her Jiddi’s voice echoed faintly from her memory, “Forgive me, habibti. The Crown Prince’s meeting has been moved. I would never miss this day if I had a choice.” Her Jidda had cried on the phone last night. “Send photos right away,” she had said. “Promise me.”

They were not here.

Not physically.

But the lilies between their chairs… Casablanca, her Jiddi’s favorite were scent enough to make her eyes sting.

She blinked fast, inhaling through her nose.

Do not cry.

Not now.

Rani is coming.

The aisle behind her remained untouched. The doors at the far end were still closed. No flutter of chiffon. No perfume in the air. But Lamia knew she would come.

She just needed to hold on.

And so, as the music shifted again, and everyone rose gently to their feet, Lamia stood in place, her breath still, her eyes fixed ahead.

Waiting.

Just as Lamia stood in front of the altar, her hands gently wrapped around the bouquet of cream roses and baby’s breath, she felt a soft tap on her elbow.

She turned slightly.

Aeris.

Dressed in the same bridesmaid gown as the others, blush satin with subtle embroidery at the neckline, a color chosen to honor both their cultures, but somehow, Aeris wore it with a quiet defiance. Her sleek dark hair was pinned up in soft waves, her eyes lined in delicate brown, and her familiar smirk tucked beneath a veil of fondness.

She leaned in close, not wanting anyone else to hear. Her voice low, but laced with memory.

“The last time I was your bridesmaid…” she began, half a laugh in her throat, “I remember standing exactly like this beside you… and telling you not to ruin your own wedding.”

Lamia looked at her, lips parting just a little, stunned by how vivid the memory came rushing back.

Aeris tilted her head, her voice gentler now. “I pleaded, if I remember right. You were cold as marble that day. Rani looked like she was trying not to cry the entire time. And me? I was just hoping you’d at least hold her hand during the photos.”

A pause.

Lamia swallowed, the air between them tight with the weight of everything they had survived.

“But now?” Aeris glanced at the closed church doors, the ones Rani would walk through. “Now I think… you love this.”

She didn’t mean the ceremony. Not the flowers, or the venue, or the grandeur of a second wedding.

She meant this. The moment. The surrender. The truth.

Lamia’s throat tightened.

Aeris gave a little sigh, stepping just slightly closer. “You’re glowing, Lamia. Not because of the makeup or the gown, but because you’re finally standing still for love. For once in your life, you’re not running.”

Lamia’s eyes stung. Just a little. But she smiled, faintly.

She hadn’t expected Aeris to say any of this.

Aeris reached forward and gently adjusted the hem of Lamia’s veil, her movements soft, intimate in that way only a best friend could manage.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I never thought I’d say that at a wedding again. But here I am. Saying it to the same woman. With the same bride… and a completely different heart.”

Another pause.

“And I think… this time, you won’t let her walk alone.”

“Rani made me this woman.”

Her tone wasn’t dramatic. There was no need for flair. It was honest. Steady. Her voice barely louder than the breeze slipping through the cracks in the old stone windows.

“She made me… brave,” she continued softly, her words slow and reverent, as though she were reciting something sacred. “She made me gentle. She made me pay attention.”

She glanced down at her bouquet, her fingers brushing the edge of a petal. A soft smile ghosted her lips.

“I used to think love was something you wore like a necklace. Polished. Pretty. For display.” Her gaze lifted slowly toward the aisle, still empty, still waiting. “But she taught me that love is something you do. Every day. Quietly. Tirelessly. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re scared.”

Her heart beat faster now. She could hear it.

Her eyes didn’t move from the church doors.

“She is… my dream,” Lamia said gently, her voice beginning to shake just slightly. “Not the dress. Not the vows. Not the photos. Her. Us. Raising our children. Watching Faisal grow into the storm he is. Holding Rebecca’s hand when she learns to braid her hair. Doing homework at the kitchen counter, making breakfast half-awake, arguing about screen time…” She laughed softly, the sound small and cracked. “That’s my dream.”

Her fingers tightened on the bouquet.

“Co-parenting with Rani is like standing in the middle of the forest. It’s green everywhere. Safe. Alive. Breathing.” She paused. “She’s the greenest person I’ve ever met.”

And her eyes shimmered.

Not from sadness.

But from something deeper. Gratitude. Awe. Devotion born not from the first kiss, but from every morning after. Every forgiveness. Every try again.

She stood straighter.

Because she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Lamia looked ahead, still no sign of Rani, but this time, she wasn’t searching out of fear. She was waiting. With the patience of someone who finally knew who she was waiting for.

And that was everything.

——

A silence swept across the room.

It was soft at first like a held breath, like the calm that blankets a field moments before the first snow falls. Every whisper died. Every chair stilled. Even the music, which had gently swelled through the air for the last few minutes, faded into a fragile stillness.

Then the first note of Beautiful in White began.

A single piano chord, steady and light.

The singer’s voice followed, clear, warm, and full of something achingly tender.

🎵 Not sure if you know this… but when we first met… I got so nervous… I couldn’t speak… 🎵

And that was when the great doors of the church creaked open.

Slow. Grand. Final.

Heads turned. Gasps slipped between parted lips. Phones were lowered. Even children seemed to instinctively fall quiet.

Lamia turned too.

And there she was.

Rani.

Framed perfectly by the late golden light of Tagaytay’s horizon, her silhouette a slow-moving masterpiece. Her veil shimmered in the sunlight like dew at dawn. Her gown, soft, sculpted, ivory silk, floated like breath around her with every careful step. A cathedral train whispered across the marble. Her hair was pulled back, elegant, parted in the middle the way Lamia always said suited her best. She wasn’t wearing too much makeup. She never needed to.

She was simply… Rani.

But in this moment, she was everything.

Lamia’s breath caught.

The song played on.

🎵In that very moment… I found the one… 🎵

Rani’s gaze never drifted. Not once. She walked slowly, deliberately, her bouquet held low against her stomach, her arms steady but her eyes already glassy. Each step seemed to echo across the room, not because of the sound, but because of the way everyone could feel the weight of it.

And Lamia couldn’t look away.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

It was like the world slowed, the room tilted toward that one woman walking toward her.

There were tears now. Not from Lamia, not yet. But from the audience. Aunties holding hands to their mouths. Cousins wiping at cheeks. A bridesmaid… Aeris, silently sniffling behind her. Even the officiant lowered his eyes for a moment, visibly moved.

And Lamia… Lamia didn’t notice any of them.

She only saw Rani.

It was then, right then, as Rani reached the halfway mark of the aisle, that Lamia’s lips parted, her shoulders trembling just slightly.

This was it.

Not their beginning.

Not their start.

But their becoming.

Every fight. Every silence. Every bitter word they once exchanged. Every night spent apart. Every time Lamia almost ruined what they had been destined to build. It all led to this.

Rani kept walking.

And Lamia felt her knees weaken, not from nerves, not from fear, but from the overwhelming, quiet power of being loved this way.

Truly. Fully. In front of everyone. In front of God.

And in that single moment, while the song swelled gently around them and the world stayed hushed, Lamia didn’t see just her wife.

She saw her home.

And for the first time in her life, she let the tears fall.

Lamia didn’t notice her body trembling until she felt the warm hand on her back.

It was gentle. Familiar. The kind of touch that didn’t ask for attention… it simply gave. Quietly, completely. A gesture that didn’t command the room, but carried a lifetime of knowing her.

Her babba had stepped just slightly beside her, close enough that he didn’t block her view of Rani, but near enough to anchor her. His palm moved in slow, careful circles between her shoulder blades, a rhythm they both knew by heart. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. That touch had been with her since childhood, when her tears soaked his shirt after scraped knees, when she clung to him in fear after nightmares, when he tucked her into bed on nights when her mother was still at the hospital.

Now, it returned.

On a day she never thought would come.

Her wedding. Their wedding. The real one.

To the woman she had once resisted with every fiber of her being. The woman she had once imagined as a stranger she’d have to tolerate forever. A name on a legal contract. A photo in a frame.

And now… she couldn’t remember who she was before her.

“Breathe, habibti,” her babba whispered beside her ear, his voice soft, tender, like a verse of du’a from long ago. “Just breathe.”

Lamia blinked, her vision already fogged with tears, the edges of her sight shimmering like sunlight hitting water. The church blurred into soft golds and whites and rose-hinted ivory, a haze of flower petals and candlelight and velvet benches. Her lashes clung together. Her lips trembled.

She raised her hand to wipe her eyes, then paused as her babba gently pressed something into her palm.

A linen handkerchief.

Pressed flat. Clean. Elegant. Pale blue embroidery along the edge L.A.

Her initials.

She remembered it now, her coming-of-age. The way he had folded it himself and told her, “This is for milestones.” She hadn’t seen it in years. She thought he’d lost it. Or maybe she had.

But he’d kept it. Quietly. Waiting for today.

She gripped it with shaking fingers. The lace edges soft as breath.

“Shukran, Babba,” she whispered, not trusting her voice beyond those two syllables.

He didn’t answer. He just nodded, still stroking her back.

And then the church doors opened.

And everything else… fell away.

The world narrowed to a single moment.

Rani.

She stood there framed by light.

And the music, soft, acoustic, achingly beautiful, began from the corner of the church, where the singer stood behind a single mic, backed by the hush of a string quartet.

🎵 So as long as I live, I’ll love you… 🎵

Lamia’s breath caught.

The words wrapped around her chest like silk cords, pulling her heart forward, forward, forward…

🎵 Will have and hold you…
You look so beautiful in white… 🎵

Rani walked with grace, each step deliberate and slow, as if she knew the weight of it all. Her dress was clean, classic, a creamy white that matched the lilies and eucalyptus woven through the aisle garlands. No veil. No pretense. Just Rani.

Her hair was tucked behind her ears, a few loose waves falling over her shoulder. Tiny pearls lined her neckline. Her bouquet was smaller than Lamia’s, elegant but humble. The kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be seen but was impossible to ignore.

And her eyes… her eyes never left Lamia’s.

Not for a second.

There was no glance to the crowd, no shy smile to the cameras, no hesitation.

Just her and Lamia, like they were the only two people in the room.

Lamia’s body gave a small shiver. She hadn’t realized how tightly she was clutching the handkerchief until her fingers began to ache. Her knees threatened to buckle under the weight of everything: the vows unsaid, the years unlived, the love reborn.

Her babba was still there.

Still steadying her with the warmth of his hand.

She didn’t look at him again. She didn’t need to.

Because Rani… her Rani, was moving closer.

🎵 And from that moment
I knew you were the one… 🎵

The lyrics cut clean through her.

She remembered the moment too.

It wasn’t the wedding years ago, when they both looked like dolls made up for display.

It wasn’t even the moment Faisal was born.

It was after.

The first time Rani made her tea and whispered, “I stayed up because you looked tired.”

The first time Rani kissed her forehead without asking.
The time she put Lamia’s feet in her lap and said, “Just rest, love.”

The million quiet declarations that stitched their love into something permanent.

🎵 As we stand before our God
I promise it’s you I’ll choose… 🎵

The air felt heavy, like every note of the song carried the weight of their journey.

Lamia’s shoulders began to rise and fall with each breath. Her lips parted slightly, and tears spilled freely now, staining the edges of her cheeks, caught gently by her babba’s second handkerchief.

She let him wipe them away. She didn’t even pretend to be strong.

She didn’t have to be.

Because love wasn’t always loud. And strength didn’t always roar.

Sometimes it was just… showing up. Staying. Choosing again.

🎵 So beautiful in white… 🎵

Rani was just a few rows away.

Just a few slow steps from reaching her.

The distance felt at once infinite and impossibly small, like all the years they’d struggled had been leading to this one breath.

Lamia didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her hands were shaking too much. Her heart was hammering too loud. And yet… everything felt still. The air was thick with silence, reverence, love.

Her babba leaned in again. Whispered once more.

“I’m proud of you, Lamia.”

Her lips quivered. She wanted to respond, but her throat had closed entirely.

She nodded instead.

Still trembling.

Still staring at the woman who had taught her how to be soft without breaking.

Rani finally came to a stop just in front of Lamia.

The music faded gently, like the last touch of sunlight sinking behind the hills. The church quieted. The guests stilled. All that remained was breath, the breath they shared, trembling and sacred between them.

Lamia could hardly breathe at all.

She didn’t know if it was the sight of Rani up close, or the weight of everything they’d survived to get here, but her chest felt tight in the most beautiful way. As if her ribs were trying to hold back an ocean.

Rani smiled. Soft. Sure.

Her lashes were dewy. Her lips, trembling just slightly at the corners. And in that moment, Lamia forgot every word she’d practiced, every part of the program, even the presence of the priest and the choir and the hundreds of eyes watching.

It was just Rani.

Just her.

Lamia’s hand slowly reached out and touched Rani’s fingers.

And Rani… without hesitation, intertwined them.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. That simple touch was enough to say, We made it.

The priest stepped forward.

The ceremony began.

And suddenly, the moment became even more real.

A familiar voice rose behind the altar, the old priest, calm and warm, the same one who baptized Faisal and blessed Rebecca’s name in the womb. He welcomed everyone with gentle reverence, introducing the couple, acknowledging the sacredness of this re-vow, and asking the congregation to pray with them.

Lamia’s head bowed instinctively. She could feel Rani’s knuckles brush softly against hers as they both lowered their gazes. Her babba had stepped back into the front pew, sitting beside her mama and Rani’s parents, all of whom watched in quiet awe.

When the prayer ended, the traditional rituals began.

First… the arrhae.

Thirteen coins, placed in a golden tray, were presented by the coin bearer. Lamia watched as Rani turned to her and gently placed the coins in her hands. Her palms opened to receive them, trembling slightly.

Each coin symbolized something, love, trust, joy, peace, cooperation. A promise of provision, of commitment, of shared responsibilities. Rani’s fingers pressed over Lamia’s for just a second longer than necessary as she released the last coin.

Then, Lamia took a deep breath and returned the gesture, offering them back to Rani. This time, Lamia’s hands didn’t shake.

She was giving them with confidence. With pride.

With certainty.

The priest spoke about the symbolism, then asked them to step closer together.

Next… the veil.

Two members of their families, Lamia’s younger cousin and Rani’s older sister Rabina, stepped forward. With careful hands, they draped the soft, sheer white veil over Lamia and Rani’s shoulders, connecting them physically under one cloth.

Lamia could feel the delicate fabric pressing lightly against her skin, but more than that, she could feel how close Rani had become. Their shoulders now touched. Their sides aligned. A quiet warmth settled in.

The veil was not just tradition, it was shelter. It meant unity. That whatever came after this, storms, stillness, sorrow they would face it covered in one protection.

Together.

Then came the cord, a white rope, knotted like an infinity symbol.

Looped carefully around both their necks and shoulders, it gently joined them, forming a loose figure-eight across their chests. Lamia glanced down for just a second, and her heart pulsed hard in her chest. That shape, that bond, it was exactly how she felt. Woven. Tangled. Forever tied.

Rani’s hand found hers again.

Held it tighter this time.

They didn’t smile. It wasn’t that kind of moment.

They just looked at each other, eyes full, as if saying: We are bound now. In every sense. And we want it this way.

Then finally… it was time for the vows.

The priest turned to Lamia.

“You may now speak your vow, Rani.”

She turned fully to Lamia, her heart climbing into her throat. Her voice was soft, but steady.

“I used to believe that love had to look a certain way… loud, burning, grand. But you… Lamia, you taught me that real love is steady. Quiet in the storm. Patient when it hurts. You gave me a home not just in your arms, but in your soul. I vow to listen. To stay. To never let silence grow too thick between us again. I promise to walk beside you, even when I’m scared, and even more when you are. You’re my best friend, the mother of our children, my second beginning. And I promise, for the rest of our lives, to keep choosing you. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.”

Lamia’s lower lip quivered.

The priest nodded gently, then turned to her. “And now, Lamia.”

She took a breath, then reached up and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Her voice cracked, but her eyes didn’t leave Rani’s.

“You were the last person I thought I’d love. And the only person I’ve ever really loved. I hated you once. And then I needed you. And then… I never knew how to live without you. Rani, you held me when I broke. You forgave me when I didn’t deserve it. You saw me… all of me… and still stayed. I vow to never forget that. I vow to honor you, laugh with you, raise our children with you, and grow old beside you, even if you’ll always act like you’re thirty-five forever. You’re my calm, my chaos, my clarity. And even in our worst moments… I’ve never stopped being yours.”

A long silence followed. Not from awkwardness, but from the weight of what had been spoken.

Then the priest smiled warmly and asked:

“Do you, Lamia Al-Gaddafi, take Rani Hidalgo once again as your lawfully wedded wife…”

“Yes father,” Lamia breathed, before he could even finish.

There was a low ripple of warmth from the pews.

The priest chuckled lightly, touched by her urgency. He turned to Rani.

“And do you, Rani Hidalgo, take Lamia Al-Gaddafi once again as your lawfully wedded wife…”

“Yes father,” Rani replied, her gaze never wavering.

Their voices weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

They were true.

And then came the rings.

Lamia turned slightly as a small velvet box was handed to her by the ring bearer. Their son. Faisal.

Inside were two new diamond rings.

Rani’s hands trembled as Lamia took her fingers and slowly, reverently, slid the ring onto her.

And then Rani did the same.

Her fingers were delicate, sure, brushing gently against Lamia’s knuckle as she sealed the promise. The metal was cool, but the warmth spread immediately.

When the priest gave them permission to kiss, the church erupted in silence again. That held breath. That sacred pause.

Lamia didn’t rush.

She turned to face her wife cupping Rani’s cheeks with both hands. Her thumbs traced the tears beneath Rani’s lashes. And for a second, they just stared.

That silence between them was louder than any applause.

And then, slowly, Lamia leaned in.

And kissed her.

The choir began to sing.

🎵 It had to be you… 🎵

Soft. Jazzy. Full of heartache and certainty.

The kind of song that knew what it meant to wait. To lose. To come back.
To choose.

And just like that, the doors of the church opened again, this time, not for Rani’s arrival, but for both of them. For their exit. As one.

Lamia stood still for a moment.

Her hand in Rani’s. Her veil fluttering softly against the gentle afternoon breeze that crept in through the high arches. Petals were scattered at the foot of the aisle now delicate shades of cream, rose, and gold, like pieces of memory.

People had risen. The pews were no longer filled with whispers or camera clicks. Just quiet reverence. Emotion. The kind that lingered in people’s eyes. Even the children had stilled, sensing something tender had passed.

Lamia blinked slowly.

She could feel the weight of her gown trailing behind her, the embroidered lace brushing against marble. But more than that she felt the warmth at her side. Rani’s fingers curled around hers, firm and familiar. There was no pressure in the hold. No rush.

Just presence.

Just us.

Lamia exhaled.

She took the first step.

And Rani stepped with her.

Their heels clicked softly in harmony, slow and steady, as they began to walk down the long, flower-dusted aisle. Side by side. No more ceremony. No more lines to memorize. No more battles to win.

Only peace now.

🎵It had to be you…🎵

The choir sang as if they were breathing through velvet. Each note drifting up to the high ceilings, echoing like old stories. The lyrics wrapped themselves around Lamia’s chest like silk, tender, aching silk and she couldn’t stop the way her eyes blurred again.

Because it had to be her.

It had always been Rani.

Despite everything—the broken beginning, the nights apart, the pain neither of them ever deserved… it still led here. To this aisle. To this love. To this ending that didn’t feel like an end at all.

The light from the open church doors stretched long and golden across the floor.

Lamia could see the shadows of their guests behind them, figures still standing, smiling, holding tissues to lips or cheeks. Her babba had his arm around her mama. Rani’s father was crying. Again. No one even tried to hide it anymore.

Lamia kept walking.

Her fingers curled tighter around Rani’s as they reached the halfway point.

Her steps were slower now, as if trying to hold the moment in suspension. Not for drama. Not for elegance.

But because she felt it.

She felt her whole life catching up to her, like wind behind her veil.
The arranged marriage.
The empty halls of their house back then.
The IVF treatments.
The miscarriages.
The screaming.
The silence.
The love that bloomed when neither of them were looking.

She felt every version of herself, the cold one, the closed-off one, the hurt one… watching her now. Letting go. Releasing.

Rani turned her head slightly. Just enough for Lamia to catch her profile.

That nose she used to call mapang-asar when they were in bed. That mouth that always had something to say, even in sleep. That woman who carried their son. Who nearly left her. Who stayed anyway.

Lamia leaned closer.

And kissed the back of Rani’s hand.

Just once.

Just softly.

No one saw it.

No one had to.

The aisle went on.

The petals crackled under their feet in the faintest sounds. Lamia’s lashes were wet again, but she didn’t care. The light was blinding now, the sun full and soft and waiting for them at the edge of the doors. The breeze danced with the bottom of her gown. Rani’s hair caught the light like strands of caramel.

🎵 It had to be you… 🎵

The doors widened more as they reached the final steps. The world outside gleamed with afternoon gold, guests already spilling out, throwing petals into the air, cheering softly from a respectful distance.

But Lamia didn’t look at any of them.

She looked at Rani.

She looked at the woman who made her furious.

Who made her brave.

Who gave her a family and then gave her a reason to fight for it.

And as they stepped out of the church into the sunlight, into the petals, into whatever came next, Lamia smiled for the first time that day.

Not the polite kind.

Not the practiced kind.

But the real one.

The kind that said,
We did it.
We’re home.
And this time, I know exactly who I’m walking with.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

The petals rained down like soft blessings.

And they walked.

Slowly.

Hand in hand.

Into everything they never thought they’d have.