It started with a sock.

That’s where Premier League striker Dominic Calvert-Lewin stashed the ring—tucked inside his suitcase—for the entire sun-drenched holiday in Sardinia. Six almost-proposals later, with timing never quite right and nerves running high, he finally got his perfect moment: a private beach, a 2001 bottle of Sandra’s favourite Sassicaia, and a sunset straight from the movies.

“I’m not the best organiser,” he admits. “Sandy is the planner. I just needed it to feel right—and somehow it took until the very last day.”

She said yes. But their love story had been unfolding quietly for three years already, ever since that fateful night at London’s Chiltern Firehouse, where mutual friends and magnetic chemistry collided. Sandra—model, interior designer, and low-key bridal visionary—was based in Switzerland at the time. Dominic, in Manchester. “We kept meeting up in London,” he recalls. “Then Sandy came up to Manchester for a few days…”
“…And I never left,” she grins.

By summer 2023, their daughter Ahava had arrived. Nearly a year later, the proposal. And then, in a crisply-lit weekend in March, timed to the international football break, came the wedding.

The weekend kicked off with an intimate civil ceremony at The Old Marylebone Town Hall. Just the couple and their parents. Sandra wore a Karl Lagerfeld-era Chanel jacquard two-piece—sourced via a perfectly impulsive Google search and Farfetch click. “I knew what I wanted. I typed it in. I saw the listing and just bought it,” she says.

Dominic wore a bespoke Andréa Kọsta suit—the first of three custom pieces he’d wear that weekend. “No pressure, no frills,” he says of the first day. “Just us.”

The next day, the mood shifted into full celebration. Sixty guests gathered at The NoMad Hotel, a venue that reminded the couple of their Chiltern beginnings. The brief: soul classics, soft florals, warm light, and zero stiffness. The priest? Also a musician. The vibe? Think Motown-tinged supper club, with a touch of candlelit mischief.

Sandra walked down the aisle in a long-sleeved, embroidered lace Dana Harel gown—the first (and only) wedding dress she tried on. But not before surprising Dom with a pre-recorded message from baby Ahava playing through the speakers. “I was crying before I even saw her,” Dominic says.

The cake was Biscoff and four-tiered, cloaked in roses. The dance floor? Instant magic. Sandra’s final outfit change of the evening was a silk corseted Danielle Frankel number, made for spinning through the night.

The weekend wrapped with a cozy, candlelit lunch—just their nearest and dearest, a lot of laughter, and more exceptional wine. “It got messy,” laughs Dom. “You don’t want to see those pictures.”

What began with a sock and a secret Sassicaia ended in three dresses, a crying groom, and a Chanel suit that started it all. And somewhere between the soul music, rose-stacked cake, and whispered vows, Sandra and Dominic did what all the best couples do: they made their own rules.