The next two weeks were a blur of flour and flowers and Frankie's failing health.
Sloane woke every morning at 4 AM to bake – not just for the bakery, but for the wedding. The cake alone took three days: four tiers of vanilla bean sponge, filled with lemon curd and brushed with Nana's honey syrup. She frosted it in pale ivory buttercream, then added fresh roses from Frankie's garden.
Jade helped. Marcus helped. Even Cole tried to help, though he was banned from the kitchen after accidentally knocking over a tray of macarons.
"The groom is not supposed to see the cake before the wedding," Sloane said, pushing him out the door.
"The groom is not supposed to bake his own wedding cake either."
"This groom isn't. I am."
Cole kissed her forehead. "You're impossible."
"I'm a bride. Same thing."
---
Frankie arrived from the islands three days before the wedding.
She was weaker – her voice softer, her hands shakier – but her eyes were still sharp. She sat in a wheelchair in the corner of the bakery, watching Sloane pipe rosettes onto the cake, and smiled.
"It's beautiful," Frankie said.
"It's not finished."
"It is. You just don't know it yet."
Sloane set down her piping bag and knelt beside Frankie's chair. "Are you scared?"
"Of dying? No. Of missing this?" Frankie looked around the bakery – the pink neon sign, the wobbly tables, the framed photo of Nana on the wall. "I'll miss all of it. But I'll miss you two most."
Sloane took Frankie's hand. "Then don't go yet."
"I'll stay as long as I can." Frankie squeezed. "Now finish that cake. I want a piece before I walk you down the aisle."
"You're walking me down the aisle?"
"Someone has to. Your Nana can't. Your parents won't. And Cole's already standing at the altar." Frankie's eyes glistened. "I'd be honored, baby. If you'll have me."
Sloane cried into Frankie's lap for ten minutes. Frankie stroked her hair and hummed an old song – the same one Nana used to hum.
---
The wedding was on a Sunday. The bakery had never looked so beautiful.
Jade had strung fairy lights across the ceiling. Marcus had borrowed white folding chairs from a church downtown. Frankie's roses filled mason jars on every table. The pink neon sign flickered – still missing the "N" – but no one cared.
Sloane wore a simple white dress. Not a gown – a dress. Lace sleeves, a skirt that swirled when she turned, and Nana's pearl earrings. Her hair was down, curly and wild. Her bouquet was a handful of Frankie's roses tied with twine.
She stood in the back office, looking at herself in the mirror.
"You're going to make him cry," Jade said.
"He doesn't cry."
"He'll cry today."
Jade adjusted Sloane's veil – a short, birdcage thing that made her feel like a movie star from the 1940s. Then she hugged her.
"I love you," Jade whispered. "You're the best friend I've ever had."
"I love you too. Now go sit down. I'm about to get married."
---
The music started. Something soft and acoustic – a guitar version of a song Sloane's Nana used to love.
Frankie stood up from her wheelchair. Slowly. Painfully. Marcus offered his arm, but Frankie waved him away.
"I'm walking her myself," Frankie said. "I've got this."
Sloane took Frankie's arm. They walked together – step by slow step – down the makeshift aisle between the white chairs.
Cole stood at the end.
He wore a gray suit – no tie, top button undone. His hair was messy. His hands were shaking. And when he saw Sloane, his face broke open.
He didn't cry. But it was close.
Sloane reached him. Frankie placed Sloane's hand in Cole's.
"Take care of her," Frankie said.
"Every day," Cole promised.
Frankie shuffled to a chair in the front row. Jade helped her sit.
The officiant was a friend of Marcus – a woman with kind eyes and a soft voice. She said words about love and commitment and the beauty of two people choosing each other.
Then it was time for vows.
Cole went first. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket – flour-stained, clearly written in the bakery kitchen at 5 AM.
"Sloane," he read. "I didn't know how to love when I met you. I knew how to build. How to fight. How to survive. But I didn't know how to let someone in."
He looked up from the paper. "You taught me. Not with speeches or lectures. With flour. With patience. With the way you looked at my scars and didn't flinch."
His voice cracked. "I used to think love was a weakness. Something that could be used against you. But you showed me that love is the only strength that matters. It's the reason I get up in the morning. It's the reason I want to be better. It's the reason I'm standing here, in a bakery, wearing a pink apron under this suit."
Everyone laughed. Sloane cried.
"I promise to show up. Every day. At 5 AM if that's what you need. I promise to learn – to keep learning – how to be the man you deserve. I promise to hold your hand in hospital rooms and in boardrooms and in the quiet moments when the world is asleep. I promise to love you. Not because of a contract. Because of everything."
He folded the paper and tucked it into her bouquet. "I love you, Sloane. Forever. No expiration date."
Sloane was crying too hard to read her vows.
Jade handed her a tissue. Sloane wiped her eyes, took a breath, and began.
"Cole. When you walked into my bakery at 5 AM, I thought you were the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I also thought you were an arrogant jerk who had no idea what real life looked like."
Cole smiled.
"I was right about the beautiful part. I was wrong about the rest." She stepped closer. "You've been through things that would have broken most people. But you're not broken. You're human. And being human means being scared and brave and stupid and brilliant all at once."
She looked at Frankie. At Jade. At Marcus.
"My Nana used to say that love isn't about finding someone perfect. It's about finding someone who makes you want to be better. And Cole – you make me want to be better. Braver. Kinder. More patient with the dough and with myself."
She took his hands. "I promise to bake you bread every morning. I promise to hold you when the nightmares come. I promise to remind you that you are worthy of love – not because of your money or your company or your last name. Because of you. Just you."
She squeezed his hands. "I love you, Cole Thorne. And I'm not going anywhere."
The officiant smiled. "By the power vested in me by the state of Washington, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."
Cole kissed her. Not carefully. Not gently. He kissed her like she was the air he'd been holding his breath for.
The bakery erupted in applause. Frankie cried. Jade sobbed. Marcus pretended to check his phone but his eyes were wet.
Sloane pulled back and laughed. "We did it."
"We did it," Cole agreed.
"Now let's eat cake."
---
The cake was everything Sloane had dreamed.
Vanilla and lemon and honey, just like Nana used to make. Cole fed her the first bite. She fed him the second. Frankie ate three slices and declared it "better than sex, though it's been a while so don't quote me."
They danced in the space between the tables. No band – just a phone playlist and Jade's terrible singing. Cole spun Sloane until she was dizzy. Frankie danced from her chair, waving her cane like a conductor's baton.
At midnight, everyone left. Jade and Marcus were the last to go – Marcus's hand on Jade's lower back, something unspoken between them.
Sloane noticed. "Are they...?"
Cole looked. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Good. She deserves someone good."
"So do you."
Sloane leaned against him. The bakery was quiet now – fairy lights still glowing, rose petals scattered on the floor, the pink neon sign flickering its broken "N."
"What do we do now?" she asked.
"Now?" Cole picked her up – one arm under her knees, one behind her back. "Now I take my wife upstairs and remind her why she married me."
"Cole Thorne. Are you carrying me over the threshold?"
"There's no threshold. The apartment is literally upstairs."
"Then carry me anyway."
He did.
The apartment had been transformed – Jade had snuck up earlier and covered the bed in rose petals. Candles flickered on the nightstand. A bottle of champagne waited in a bucket of ice.
Cole set Sloane down on the bed. Then he knelt in front of her and unlaced her shoes. Slowly. Reverently.
"You're staring again," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"No. Staring is passive. Admiring is active." He kissed her ankle. "I am actively admiring my wife."
She pulled him up onto the bed.
The rest of the night was theirs – whispered and moaned and gasped into each other's skin. The city hummed below them. The bakery slept. And Sloane Bennett – now Sloane Thorne – had never been happier.
---
The next morning, she woke at 4 AM out of habit.
Cole's arm was draped across her waist. His face was soft in sleep. She traced the lines of his jaw, the scar on his eyebrow, the curve of his lips.
He opened his eyes. "It's 4 AM."
"I know. I have to bake."
"You're the owner. You can sleep in."
"I'm the baker. The dough doesn't care about my marriage."
He groaned and pulled her back down. "Five more minutes."
"The croissants won't proof themselves."
"Then let them be sad croissants."
Sloane laughed and kissed his forehead. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now go. But come back to bed after the morning rush."
"Deal."
She pulled on his shirt – the one from last night – and padded downstairs. The bakery was dark and quiet. She turned on the oven, measured the flour, and began to knead.
The dough was soft and warm under her hands. She thought of Nana. Of Frankie. Of Cole sleeping upstairs in her tiny apartment, wearing nothing but sheets and a smile.
She thought of the contract. The fake engagement. The real love that had grown between the clauses.
Some contracts are meant to be broken, she thought.
Ours was meant to be signed in flour and skin.
The oven beeped. The morning light crept through the windows. And upstairs, her husband was waiting.
Sloane Bennett Thorne smiled and began to bake.