I took his hand—the same hand that had once been covered in fake grime—and laced our fingers together.
“I’m not walking away, Rafe. I’m walking forward… with you.”
He pulled me close and kissed me as the sun dipped below the horizon.
**Epilogue**
We never had that first wedding annulled. Instead, six months later, we held a real one—small, private, filled only with people who truly loved us. No cameras. No billionaires laughing. Just vows spoken from the heart.
Julian Reyes spent the next twenty years in prison. His name became a cautionary tale.
And I, Clara Valderama-Montalban, learned that sometimes the man who looks like a beggar at the altar is actually the king who will burn down empires for you.
**The End.**
