The air in their penthouse still carried the faint salt of the Amalfi Sea, though weeks had passed since the trip. Wedding plans moved in bursts—Su Wanwan's sketches at midnight, Lu Shiyan's quiet calls to vendors at dawn. They chose an ancient stone chapel in the hills, ringed by olive trees and wild thyme, and fixed the date three months out: enough time to breathe, not enough to overthink.
Su Wanwan designed her own gown. Each night she bent over the desk, lamp pooling gold across silk samples and thread cards. She wanted the dress to remember everything: the sting of betrayal, the grit of rebuilding, the hush of lemon groves at dusk. "Organic silk," she told Lu Shiyan, spreading swatches across the rug like a map. "Lemon-blossom embroidery for the coast. Sapphire beads for the water."
He knelt, fingertips tracing the cloth. "Hire someone," he said, half-order, half-plea.
She shook her head. "This is mine to weave." She tucked his hair behind his ear, the gesture small and fierce. "You handle the rest. We balance."
Balance. The word settled in him like a new language. He had commanded boardrooms, but never a life. Now he trimmed the guest list to thirty souls—family fragments, project allies, no cameras—and booked the chapel's garden for wildflowers only.
One Saturday they drove to a barn turned florist shop. Buckets of peonies and lavender crowded the aisle; the air tasted green. Clara, the florist, listened to Su Wanwan's vision—lemons, olive branches, hydrangeas the color of deep water—then squinted at their linked hands. "You've been through fire," she said. "Shows in the way you look at each other."
Outside, Lu Shiyan led her into a sunflower field. The stalks rose higher than their heads, faces tilted to the light. "Remember the first day?" he asked. "You thought I was buying absolution."
"I thought you were insufferable," she corrected, laughing. "Then you listened."
His thumb brushed her knuckles. "You cracked the shell I didn't know I wore."
They kissed among the sunflowers, pollen dusting their clothes like gold leaf.
Work on the community site never paused. Foundations rose; garden beds took shape. Su Wanwan lived in steel-toe boots, sketchbook flapping against her hip. One afternoon Mrs. Li appeared, Xiao Ming clutching a crayon drawing: a boxy house, one enormous sunflower. "For you," the boy said. "Our new home."
Su Wanwan crouched, throat tight. "I'll frame it," she promised. Mrs. Li's eyes shone. "You're giving us tomorrow."
That night on the terrace, city lights flickering below, Su Wanwan repeated the words. Lu Shiyan pulled her close. "My father measured success in zeros," he said. "You taught me it's measured in sunflowers."
The phone rang—Lin Zhou, voice clipped. "The Jiangs filed suit. Claim the land seizure was coercion. They're leaking stories: unsafe builds, corner-cutting."
Su Wanwan's pulse spiked. Lu Shiyan's jaw set. "We have permits, violations on record, families ready to speak. We fight."
They fought clean. Lu Shiyan buried lawyers in paper; Su Wanwan marched reporters through half-built homes, pointing out recycled beams, greywater systems, playgrounds sketched by children. At the press conference she held Xiao Ming's drawing aloft. "This is the profit we chase." Cameras flashed; the room tilted toward them.
The lawsuit lingered like background noise. The wedding arrived anyway.
Dawn rinsed the hills silver. Mia laced Su Wanwan into the gown—silk skimming her ankles, lemon blossoms climbing the train like vines. White flowers tucked into loose waves. "You're luminous," Mia whispered.
Su Wanwan's father walked her down the aisle. His hand trembled; his voice did not. "Your mother sees this," he said.
Lu Shiyan waited beneath the chapel arch, navy suit sharp, white rose trembling against his lapel. When he saw her, tears slipped free—silent, unashamed.
The pastor spoke of love as daily choice. Lu Shiyan's vows were steady fire: "I promise to choose you when the coffee burns, when the numbers don't add, when the world howls. I choose you every sunrise."
Su Wanwan's voice shook only once. "I promise to fight beside you, to sketch our dreams on napkins, to come home to you even when the day breaks me. I choose you, mess and all."
Gold bands slid on—engraved with the date they first collided. They kissed; the chapel exhaled.
The reception spilled into the olive grove. String lights, long tables, jazz curling through the dusk. Mia toasted friendship; Lin Zhou toasted change; Mrs. Li toasted hope. Lu Shiyan drew Su Wanwan beneath the trees and fastened a necklace around her throat: silver sunflower, sapphire heart. "For the coast," he said. "For us."
"I love you, Mr. Lu."
"I love you, Mrs. Lu."
Later, driving away under a spill of stars, Su Wanwan touched the pendant. "What's next?"
He laced their fingers. "Tuscany honeymoon. First village finished. Maybe a child—when the gardens bloom." A smile tugged his mouth. "Whatever we build, we build together."
She rested her head on his shoulder. The road unspooled ahead, dark and bright at once. They had walked through fire; now they carried the light.