Jay-Jay's POV
Engagement glow lingered weeks, turning London gray into golden haze. Mornings started tangled in sheets, Keifer's bracelet cool against my skin as he traced the ring's blue beads, whispering "Mrs. Ulupong-to-be" with that sleepy grin that melted me every time. Section E invaded daily — Rakki bursting through doors with venue binders ("Philippines-London fusion or riot!"), Freya hauling dress swatches ("Silk, not satin — trust me"), Grace experimenting floral crowns in our living room, petals everywhere. Evenings melted into family feasts at Serina's: adobo simmering slow, lumpia crisping golden, laughter echoing as C-in video-bombed from Manila with prank ideas ("Exploding cake?").
Paparazzi faded to whispers; lawsuits crushed Curtis's scams, Mama's silence bought with settlements, Kaizer's cell time extended on fresh charges. Therapy deepened healing — journals brimmed: "Keifer's steady hand," "Section E's unbreakable roar," "Survived, thrived." Nightmares? Distant echoes, chased by dreams of beaches, vows, forever.
One rainy afternoon, curled on the couch mid-packing lists, Keifer knelt dramatic with a brochure. "Honeymoon preview: Boracay whitesands, no phones, just us." His eyes sparkled mischief. "Pre-wedding escape?" I pulled him close, heart full. "Booked." Horizons called sweet, drama dust long settled. Love built empires now.