Chase’s POV
The invitations went out on a crisp October morning.
Thick cream cardstock, embossed with a simple silver moon and thorned vine—Markus’s crest reworked to include Amelia’s initials woven into the design. No ostentatious gold foil, no long guest list of business allies and distant cousins. Just family. Pack. The people who’d stood with us when the world tried to tear us apart.
We hand-addressed every envelope ourselves—sitting at the kitchen island after the triplets were asleep, coffee gone cold, laughter quiet so we wouldn’t wake them. Amelia’s handwriting was neat, looping; mine was blocky, careful. We argued playfully over wording.
“‘Chase and Amelia Hudson request the honor…’” she read aloud, pen hovering. “Too formal?”
“Way too formal,” I said. “We’re not inviting sha
