The morning after Henri Leclair's downfall was quieter than expected.
No headlines screamed. No paparazzi hounded their gates. The world was stunned into silence.
Jasmine stood barefoot in the kitchen of the cliffside estate they'd escaped to after Zurich—Lucien's family retreat that he rarely visited. With the stove humming and sunlight creeping through the windows, the moment almost felt... normal.
Lucien entered, tie undone, sleeves rolled. Not the cold CEO. Just the man she'd grown to love.
"You cooked?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at the pancakes on the table.
"I warmed," she corrected. "From a box. Let's not pretend I'm domestic."
He chuckled. "You're good at pretending, though."
She threw a napkin at him. "Too soon."
He caught it. "Fair."
They sat. Ate. And didn't talk about threats or contracts or headlines. Just art and books and travel. As if they'd been doing this for years.
"I don't know how to live a quiet life," Lucien admitted.
"Then let's make it loud. But peaceful," Jasmine said. "With room for mistakes."
He leaned over, kissed her temple. "Room for you, always."
---
Later that day, the lawyer called.
Henri had fled the country the night before the arrest warrants were issued.
His board resigned. Most of his assets had been seized. And Leclair Global was being dismantled, piece by piece.
"You won," the lawyer said.
"No," Lucien replied after a pause. "We survived."
---
Despite the chaos ending, the real work was only beginning.
Lucien returned to ThornTech with a quiet determination. No longer a man defending his throne, but one rebuilding it.
His first order of business? Creating a department dedicated to independent artists and minority-run startups—something Jasmine had once dreamed of.
He named it The Lane Initiative.
When Jasmine saw the press release, she cried. Quietly. Alone.
Because for the first time, her name wasn't just tied to him.
It stood beside his.
As an equal.
---
That night, they celebrated the only way they knew how—no reporters, no press, no audience.
Just champagne. Soft jazz. And the two of them curled up on the rooftop balcony, city lights blinking like distant stars.
Lucien pulled her closer. "What now?"
Jasmine thought for a moment. "We make a list."
He raised a brow. "A list?"
"Of things we never got to do because we were too busy pretending."
He grinned. "I like that."
"Item one," she said, scribbling into a small leather notebook. "A real honeymoon."
"Anywhere?"
"Everywhere."
"Deal."
---
The weeks that followed were filled with soft mornings, louder nights, quiet victories, and hard truths. They went to Italy, danced in Brazil, wandered through Tokyo. And every time Jasmine took a photo, she wrote a line of poetry beside it in her notebook.
Lucien called it their "Proof of Love Journal."
---
One afternoon, in Santorini, as waves kissed the cliffs and the breeze curled through their rented villa, Lucien knelt beside Jasmine, holding a velvet box.
Not as a performance.
Not as damage control.
But because he wanted to ask the question no contract had required:
"Will you marry me again?"
Jasmine blinked, smiling through tears. "Only if it's forever."
"Always."
---
They renewed their vows beneath the Grecian sun. No crowd. No cameras. Just two souls who had nearly lost everything—and had chosen to love anyway.
---