The author clearly doesn't want to write a marriage chapter, it once again falls to sir Ainz.
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Catherine had never put much thought into what her wedding would be like.
Growing up, she had assumed that if she ever found a man steady enough to marry, the event would be a sensible thing. Small. To the point. A simple exchange of vows in a clapboard church, followed by a dinner of roast chicken and perhaps a bit of cider.
None of those words could describe the wedding that Felix had willed into existence with the sheer force of his social standing and a seemingly bottomless well of money.
The Argyle estate Felix bought in upstate New York had been transformed into a lush, mid-summer oasis. Despite the lingering shadows of the war that had ended only a few years prior, the grounds overflowed with giant Carolina jasmine and weaving branches of wisteria.
Out the tall, polished windows of the manor, Catherine could hear the tinkling laughter of New York's elite and the muted conversation of magnates and railroad kings milling about the gardens.
She shuffled away from the window nervously, turning toward the heavy mahogany-framed mirror.
Her dress, at least, had been the one thing she had allowed herself to dream about. She couldn't have cared less about the twelve-tier chocolate cake or the rigid seating arrangements that Felix had obsessed over, but her dress—that she had imagined.
Reminiscent of the gowns she'd seen in imported French sketches, she had wanted something airy, dainty, and beautiful.
Taking in her reflection, she could barely recognize the woman who stood before her.
The dress draped down her thin frame impeccably.
It was a marvel of craftsmanship—layers of translucent silk gauze over a structured hoop, but light enough to seem as though it floated. Tiny seed pearls were embroidered across the bodice in the shape of lilies, matching the small white blooms her closest friends had pinned into her dark, upswept hair.
She looked like a goddess of Spring, and she paused at the thought.
The metaphor seemed to fit, considering her future husband. Felix was the winter—solid, cold to those who didn't know him, and formidable.
Catherine sighed, wanting to sit in the velvet armchair but terrified of creasing the silk. Suddenly, the thought of declaring her undying love for him left her trembling.
She had written her own vows, spending hours by candlelight perfecting the sentences. But now, the words felt too personal, too raw to be read aloud in a theater of high society.
Anxiety built within her, a familiar, cold weight.Even now, on her wedding day, she could feel the tension in her shoulders—the instinct to find the nearest exit.
Her breaths started to come faster. I will not hyperventilate, she told herself firmly. Not today.
A soft knock sounded at the door. She moved toward it, opening it just an inch. "Hello?"
"It's me," a deep, familiar baritone whispered back.
"Felix! It's bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony!" she whispered, her heart leaping even as she tried to sound stern.
"Says who? The local gossips?" he drawled. She could hear the smirk in his voice.
"Yes, and they are the ones who will be writing the papers tomorrow," she said smartly.
"Maybe so, but is there a gossip in there to keep you from panicking?"
"I'm not panicking," she said, her voice betraying her by going up an octave.
"Catherine," he drew out her name like a gentle admonition. "I'm about to be your husband. We are minutes away from tying our lives together. Don't start lying to me now."
She threw open the door and crushed herself against him. His arms—clad in the fine wool of a black frock coat—immediately wrapped around her.
She inhaled his scent, grounding herself in it: cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and something entirely his own. Her heart started to settle.
"I told you so," he murmured, his chest rumbling against her ear.
"Sod off, Argyle."
"Not a chance... Miss Argyle," he teased.
She leaned back to look him in the eye and sucked in a breath. He looked heartbreakingly handsome. His fair hair was swept back, and his eyes—usually so calculating in the boardroom—were soft with an adoration that was reserved only for her.
"You look amazing," she breathed.
"And you look breathtaking," he echoed. He held her at arm's length, his eyes darkening as they swept over the silk and pearls. "I can't wait to marry you."
"I can't wait either, but remind me why I allowed you to invite the entire state of New York," she whined.
"I'm nervous too, even the Lincolns are coming" he replied. Felix wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, his thumb massaging the tension at the base of her skull. "You'll be fine. It will be over before the sun sets."
"I don't want to just breeze through it, though," she said, looking up at him. "I want to remember it. I'm taking you as my husband... I just wish I didn't have to share the moment with so many people."
Felix was quiet for a moment. He looked down the hallway, then back at her. A mischievous glint appeared in his silver eyes.
"We could get married now," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"There's still an hour before the procession. We could just do it now, quietly. Then we do the grand performance for the guests later. No one would even know the difference."
"Felix Argyle, that is scandalous," she said, though a smile was breaking through.
"Think about it. You could fully enjoy the words without five hundred people staring at your corset. If you lose your breath later, it won't matter. The real union will have already happened."
She considered him. "You'd be okay with that? Truly?"
He let out a very Felix-like scoff. "What part of 'five hundred people' makes you think I'm enjoying this? I'd rather be alone with you in a storm than in a ballroom with them. Besides, they'll all be looking at you anyway. I'm just the accessory."
"Who would perform it?" she asked, her mind already racing.
They both went quiet. Most of the local clergy were currently drinking tea in the garden. Catherine brightened.
"What about Judge Miller? He's in the library, isn't he? He doesn't care for pomp."
Felix grinned. "Perfect. I'll go fetch him. Meet me by the old oak at the edge of the property in ten minutes. It's out of sight from the terrace."
"See you at the altar, Mr. Argyle," she joked, her eyes suddenly wet.
"I'll be the one in the black coat," he replied, kissing her forehead before slipping away.
Ten minutes later, Catherine stepped out onto the veranda. The scent of honeysuckle was heavy in the humid Maryland air. She walked toward the ancient oak, her silk skirts whispering against the grass.
As promised, Felix was there, standing beside the gray-haired Judge. When Felix turned to see her approaching through the trees, his expression melted into pure reverence. He outstretched his hand, and she took it, the world around them suddenly going silent.
"Are you ready?" the Judge asked softly.
Catherine looked into Felix's silver eyes and nodded. They stood in the shade of the great tree, far from the lace and the status and the noise.
There, amidst the humming of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves, they spoke the words they had written for each other—raw, personal, and true.
When the Judge proclaimed them husband and wife, Felix didn't wait. He pulled her close, his hands tenderly framing her face.
The kiss was firm and certain, a silent promise that the war was over and the rest of their lives had begun.
"I love you, Catherine," he whispered against her lips.
"I love you, Felix," she replied, the anxiety finally, beautifully, gone.