Meg Cabot Royal Wedding [best] May 2026

One month ago, my handsome, sushi-obsessed, perfect-in-every-way fiancé, Michael Moscovitz, got down on one knee in the middle of a Genovian olive grove (he had an olive leaf stuck in his hair—it was adorable) and asked me to marry him. Obviously, I said yes. I’ve loved him since I was fourteen years old and he was a brooding artist who smelled like paint thinner and justice.

The day of the wedding dawned sunny and warm. I wore my great-grandmother’s beige dress after all (Grandmère sulked in the front row). Fat Louie, surprisingly, did not flee or attack anyone; he walked down the aisle with the dignity of a small, furry king. Michael’s dad showed up in a brand-new suit (he’d bought it specially, and he only cried twice). meg cabot royal wedding

“Wonderful!” Grandmère clapped. “We’ll seat him next to the Duchess of Vonn. She’s deaf. He can talk about tractors all night.” The day of the wedding dawned sunny and warm

“It’s my great-grandmother’s wedding dress,” I said, clutching the vintage lace to my chest. “It’s sentimental.” Michael’s dad showed up in a brand-new suit

“Carnations are durable ,” Helga said. “Like the Genovian monarchy.”

Michael took the monstrosity off my head and set it aside. He cupped my face in his hands. “Mia. Listen to me. I don’t care if you wear a paper bag. I don’t care if the cake is tofu. I don’t care if your grandmother’s poodle, Rommel, is the flower girl. At the end of that aisle, I’m just going to see you. The same girl who used to pass me notes in Algebra class. That’s the only royal wedding I want.”