Bound by the vow

Chapter6

The soft hum of morning filtered into the penthouse through cream-colored drapes. Outside, the Seine flowed silently, carrying with it autumn leaves and distant church bells. Inside, Damon awoke to warmth—the warmth of her beside him.

Élodie.

Her breathing was even, her head resting near his shoulder, her hand lightly on his chest. For a moment, he didn’t move. He only looked at her—the curve of her lips, the softness in her expression, the peace. It had been weeks since they had shared such silence that wasn’t tainted by grief or guilt. But now... she was here.

By choice.

Damon slowly reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

Élodie stirred, eyes fluttering open, and she blinked up at him. “You’re staring,” she whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

He smiled. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You already did.”

“Are you angry?”

She shook her head gently. “No. Just... unsure.”

“Of me?”

“Of us,” she said honestly, eyes searching his. “But I’m willing to keep trying.”

Damon’s heart clenched. “Then I’ll do everything I can not to fail you again.”

The days that followed unfolded like pages of a new book—written with caution, but colored with hope.

Their home, once quiet and cold, began to breathe with life. Élodie returned to her art, often painting long into the evening while jazz records played in the background. Damon, for the first time, began leaving work earlier, choosing evenings on the rooftop with her over boardroom wins.

One night, she painted a single rose in the middle of a dark canvas.

When he asked her why, she replied, “Because something beautiful can still grow in ruin.”

He didn’t say anything—but that painting would later hang above his desk at Delacroix Industries.

Healing was not linear. Grief still lived in the corners of their laughter.

Élodie sometimes found herself reaching for her phone to call her father. Damon occasionally sat in silence for hours, staring at his whiskey glass without drinking.

One afternoon, she entered his office and found a file—old court documents, news articles about the Moreau family collapse, letters she didn’t know he still kept.

“I hated your father for what he did to mine,” Damon said quietly, not turning as she walked in. “But when he was dying... he asked me to love you. Not protect you. Love you.”

Élodie stood still. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“Because if you want to walk away for good, I won’t stop you. You deserve freedom, Élodie. You always did.”

She walked over to him, took the folder, and tossed it into the fireplace.

“Then stop punishing yourself for things we can’t change,” she said. “I’m still here. That’s what matters.”

He kissed her like a man who had been waiting to exhale.

Their fragile peace was tested again when tabloids began whispering.

It started with a photograph of them at a gallery event. Then came the headline:

“From Enemy’s Daughter to Billionaire’s Bride: Real Love or Guilt Game?”

Élodie was furious—not just at the media, but at the lies. “They make it sound like I’m some... paid ornament.”

Damon, unshaken, made one call to his legal team. But Élodie stopped him.

“No. Let’s not fight fire with fire. Let’s live so truthfully the world has no choice but to forget the lie.”

So they began stepping out together—not for show, but for life.

Damon took her to charity galas, to art shows, to silent auctions where he bought every piece she painted anonymously. They were seen, yes—but they were also seen as real.

And slowly, the public eye blinked, lost interest... and moved on.

A Proper Proposal

They were walking through the Tuileries Gardens one late November morning when Damon stopped beside a fountain.

“What if we got married again?” he asked.

She turned to him, surprised. “Again?”

He pulled a small velvet box from his coat pocket and knelt—not as a billionaire, not as a man trying to make up for a deal gone wrong—but as someone completely in love.

“This time without contracts. Without sickness. Without anger. Just you, me... and whatever life gives us.”

Élodie’s hand flew to her mouth. “You already have me.”

“Say yes anyway.”

“Yes,” she breathed, tears in her eyes.

They married on the rooftop garden of their Paris penthouse, overlooking the city that had watched them fall apart and build back.

This time, the guest list was small—Isabelle, her best friend from the academy, Damon's old mentor, and a few family members who still believed in love.

Élodie wore her mother’s vintage lace dress.

Damon wore no tie, just a smile he hadn't worn since childhood.

When they exchanged vows, she said, “I used to think you were the villain in my story. But you became the one person who never gave up on me. Not even when I gave up on myself.”

And he said, “I spent my life conquering. And then I met someone who didn’t want my world—she wanted me. And she gave me hers in return.”

They kissed under golden light, and Paris seemed to sigh in relief.

Weeks passed.

Honeymoon in Lake Como. Quiet nights in the Italian countryside. Laughter in local cafés where no one knew them.

Back in Paris, Élodie opened her own studio downtown. Damon walked her there every morning like a ritual.

She painted roses, storms, and finally—a pair of hands holding light.

When a journalist asked her during an interview what inspired the piece, she simply said, “Redemption.”

And when the article came out, it wasn’t a scandal.

It was a love story.