The island was alive with light and sound. The private beach venue—once quiet and ours—had been transformed into a dreamscape worthy of the headlines calling it "the royal wedding of superheroes." White tents draped in violet and purple silk fluttered in the ocean breeze. Crystal chandeliers hung from wooden arches, catching the late afternoon sun and scattering rainbow flecks across the sand. Flowers—orchids, lilies, roses—glowed faintly, as if kissed by Elena's aura. A long aisle of white petals led to an altar framed by driftwood and sea glass, the ocean stretching out behind it like a living painting. Tables were set for three hundred—family, close friends, select government officials, and a handful of trusted media crews broadcasting live to billions.
The excitement was palpable. Social media had been ablaze for days—#ThickChickWedding trending number one globally. Fans posted countdowns, live-streamed arrival footage from boats circling the island's perimeter, and created playlists of our "battle themes" remixed with wedding songs. News helicopters hovered at a respectful distance, their lenses trained on every detail. "This isn't just a wedding," one anchor had said that morning. "It's a global moment of hope—two heroes who saved the world now binding their lives together."
I stood in the groom's suite—a small cabana near the shore—surrounded by my groomsmen: a few old friends from college I'd reconnected with in the last month. They were wide-eyed, half-laughing, half in awe. "Mate," one said, adjusting my violet tie, "you're marrying Thick Chick. The Thick Chick. How does it feel to be the luckiest bastard alive?"
I laughed—nerves bubbling under my skin. "Like I'm going to throw up and cry at the same time."
Another clapped my shoulder. "You've earned it. After everything—the asteroids, the clones, the void—you two are unbreakable."
The door opened. Dad stepped in—suit sharp, eyes shining. He'd come back with Mum for the wedding, the two of them looking more at peace than I'd seen in years. He pulled me into a hug—tight, proud. "Son… I'm so damn proud of you. Not just for saving the world. For becoming the man you are. For loving her the way she deserves."
I hugged him back—throat tight. "Thanks, Dad. Means everything."
He stepped back, smiling. "She's waiting. And she's… stunning. You're in trouble, kid."
I laughed. "I know."
We left for the church—a simple open-air structure on the beach, white arches and flowing fabric. The limousine ride was short but surreal—Dad and my groomsmen joking, champagne poured, the ocean glittering outside. I stared out the window—heart pounding. One year ago, she was the beautiful neighbor I couldn't stop staring at. Now she was my future wife.
We arrived. The aisle was lined with friends, family, heroes from around the world. The seats were full—hundreds of people who'd fought beside us, supported us, believed in us. Media cameras were discreet but present—broadcasting live to billions. I walked with Dad and my groomsmen to the altar—nerves electric. I felt excited, terrified, joyful. My hands shook as I stood there, waiting.
The music began—soft strings swelling into the familiar theme we'd chosen. Everyone stood. I felt her presence behind me—electric, warm, undeniable. I turned.
Elena floated down the aisle.
She was breathtaking.
Her dress was white silk—flowing, form-fitting at the bodice, then cascading into a train that shimmered with violet threads. The neckline plunged just enough to show the curve of her breasts, sleeves sheer and delicate. Her hair was half-up, half-down—raven waves glowing with golden highlights from the sun incident. Makeup subtle—lips red, eyes lined to make them pop. She floated—not walking—her grace so natural it looked effortless. The crowd gasped. Cameras flashed. Children pointed in awe.
Dr. Voss walked beside her—giving her away, since her parents were long gone. He smiled—proud, fatherly. When they reached the altar, he placed her hand in mine. "Take care of her, Alex," he said quietly.
"I will," I promised, voice thick.
Elena looked up at me—eyes shining. I stumbled—words mumbling. "You… you're… I can't… you're stunning."
She smiled—soft, teasing. "You clean up nice too, fiancé."
The priest began—voice calm, broadcast live. "Dearly beloved… we are gathered here today…"
Before he reached objections, the doors to the church exploded open—wood splintering, light flooding in.
A man walked in—alone, smug, dressed in black and silver.
Riftmaster.
"I object," he said, voice echoing.
The crowd gasped. Cameras swiveled. Elena's hand tightened in mine—purple aura flaring. My violet energy surged—ready.
He smiled—cold. "We're not done yet."
The wedding was about to become a battlefield.