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This is a state of grace This is the worthwhile fight Love is a ruthless game Unless you play it good and right These are the hands of fate You're my Achilles heel This is the golden age of something good and right and real State Of Grace
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Klaus paced back and forth in the quiet of the room, his hands running through his hair more times than he could count. The night before his wedding, he couldn't stop thinking and Rebekah appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow.
"You look like you're about to explode, Nik."
Klaus stopped mid-step and ran a hand over his face. "I... I'm just thinking of Isabelle." He admitted quietly.
"Thinking?" Rebekah asked, pushing off the frame to walk closer. "You're marrying Isabelle tomorrow. You've been waiting for this."
"I know." Klaus said, pacing again. "But I don't want to mess it up. I... I want this to work, I want her to be happy and I don't want to be the reason it fails."
"Niklaus, she chose you. You don't get to mess this up...she already wants this as much as you do. Well, clearly not as much as you but still... she wants you." Rebekah crossed her arms, studying him
"It's different, she chose me because of some duty." Klaus let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head
"Then don't overthink it. She doesn't need perfect... she needs you." Rebekah's eyes softened, placing a hand on his shoulder
"You really think so?"
"I know so." Rebekah said firmly, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze
Klaus pulled a small box from his pocket, opening it carefully to reveal the ring he had chosen for Isabelle. The light from the lamp caught the gem, making it sparkle brilliantly
"Wow... Nik, that's beautiful." She breathed out, leaning over slightly to get a better look
"It's hers." He said quietly, almost to himself. "I wanted something that... that fits her. Something she'll like, something she'll keep forever."
You always go overboard, don't you?" She teased, smiling warmly. "But she's going to love it. I mean, look at it... it's perfect."
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The morning sun streamed through the window touching the folds of the gold fabric spread across the bed. Isabelle sat before the small mirror, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as Astrid smoothed the gown and Rebekah fixed her hair
"You are fidgeting." Astrid observed, glancing at her daughter's reflection. "You'll wrinkle your gown if you keep at it."
"I know." Isabelle murmured, forcing her hands still. She pressed her lips together, trying to compose herself but her foot began to tap restlessly against the floor
