Chapter 10 - THE WEAVER’S WEDDING
Seven months later.
The Grand Imperial Hotel had seen hundreds of weddings in its hundred-year history, but it had never seen a night like this.
Three hundred people filled the grand ballroom.
On the left side of the room sat the working-class families of Marrow Hill: the tailors, the butchers, the market vendors, and the elderly women from the parish hall, all dressed in their finest clothes, drinking expensive champagne paid for by the groom.
On the right side of the room sat Ambrose’s top captains, the city’s remaining honest council members, and business leaders who had allied with the new Calvano foundation.
At the front of the altar stood Ambrose Calvano, wearing a dark blue tuxedo, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he waited for the doors to open.
Beside him stood Marco, wearing a sharp suit and a wide, proud smile.
Sitting in the front row in a plush wheelchair was Ruth Ashby, wearing a silver lace gown that Karen had spent eighty hours hand-stitching in her shop, a pink rose pinned over her heart.
The grand brass doors at the back of the hall opened.
The organ let out a triumphant, soaring chord that echoed through the crystal chandeliers.
Karen stepped through the doorway.
A collective sigh swept through the three hundred guests.
She wore a wedding gown of her own design—a masterpiece of heavy ivory silk, cut with a high, regal collar that swept down into a dramatic, flowing train.
The left side of the gown—the side framing her neck, her shoulder, and her jaw—was entirely hand-embroidered with intricate, delicate gold thread, creating a breathtaking pattern of leaves and woven vines that wrapped around her scar like a crown of light.
She did not wear a veil over her face.
She held a bouquet of white orchids and gold ribbon in her right hand, her head held high, her chin lifted, walking down the white aisle with a radiant, absolute beauty that made three women in the front row burst into tears.
She reached the altar.
Ambrose stepped down to meet her. He took her hand in his, his fingers trembling slightly as he looked into her dark, shining eyes.
"You took my breath away," Ambrose whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"You gave me mine back," Karen replied softly.
The priest began the holy vows, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room.
When the moment arrived for the rings, Ambrose slid the platinum woven band onto Karen's finger. Karen slid a matching platinum ring onto Ambrose's hand, securing her place as his wife, his partner, and his equal.
"By the power vested in me," the priest declared, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Ambrose did not hesitate.
He stepped forward, gathered Karen into his arms, and pulled her close.
He did not turn her face away from the crowd. He did not angle her toward the shadows.
He framed her face with both of his large hands, looked directly into her whole face—the soft right side and the gold-adorned left side—and kissed her deeply, passionately, in full view of the three hundred people who had once laughed at her name.
The entire ballroom erupted into thunderous, deafening applause.
The market vendors cheered; the mob captains clapped their heavy hands; Ruth wiped a happy tear from her eye with a silk handkerchief.
Ambrose turned, taking Karen's hand in his, raising their joined arms high into the air as they walked together down the aisle as husband and wife.
No one looked away.
May you like
No one covered their smiles.
For Karen Ashby—the girl who had once turned her body toward the damp stone walls of a basement shop—was now the undisputed Queen of Marrow Hill, standing in the full, unyielding light of a love that no fire could ever burn away.
