Page 1 of Bride By Coronation

PROLOGUE

Fiona O'Malley

Memories of my father keep fading. Sometimes, I have to look at photos to remember his smile. There are only a few videos of birthday parties where I can hear his voice. And the more years that have gone by, the more confusion evolves regarding who he was and what he was involved in that led to his murder.

As much as I want to know, I don't think anyone will ever be honest with me. Everyone wants to protect me and keep me isolated. So I stay inside my world full of people who are beautiful on the outside but lack the one thing I never forget my father taught me: True beauty is a scarred masterpiece. It runs deeper than we initially see, digging into the core of who a person is and blooming into a blinding light. It's so magnificent that only those who take the time to closely examine it can appreciate its uniqueness and recognize its rarity. Even fewer people exist who can see it immediately, becoming blinded by the brightness of another upon the first gaze.

Everyone wants me to find my guy and settle down, but there's a problem with every man I date.

No one is really beautiful. They lack the glow of imperfect blemishes the world sees as ugly. But as my father taught me, the world is wrong. The imperfections the world doesn't appreciate are exquisitely beautiful and rare, and that's the type of man I ache to know...to hold close...to ultimately love for eternity.

1

Fiona

Bitter cold slams into me the moment I step outside the Pilates studio. The wind whistles louder, and a blanket of thick, wet snow covers buildings, streets, and cars. Oversized flakes fall, making it nearly impossible to see what's ahead of me.

I reach my bare hand into my pocket, feel my credit card sleeve, and nothing else.

Great. I forgot my phone.

"Idiot," I mutter, shivering and digging my hands into my pockets deeper, cursing myself for not anticipating the weather. My alarm didn't ring, and I ran out of my apartment in my sneakers, leggings, and a thinner winter jacket just in time to catch the last advanced class of the day.

The moment I stepped outside, I knew I needed more clothes. But it wasn't snowing then, so I ran the entire eight blocks, happy to burn off the wine I drank at the dinner party I went to last night.

Now I'm regretting putting my workout over my attire. My hot cheeks and sweaty skin only accelerate the chill creeping into my bones. I push myself against the harsh gusts, trying to walk faster, butevery step is a fight. And the rising sun only serves to mock me, adding no warmth anywhere.

It takes me three times as long as it normally does to travel a few blocks. Nostalgia fills me from when I was a little girl and taxi cabs lined the streets. These days, you only get a ride if you order one, and since I don't have my phone, I'm out of luck.

Michigan Avenue appears, and I almost cross it, but I turn at the last second. My brother, Sean, and his wife, Zara, who's also my best friend, live on the next corner. So I decide I'll visit them and my new twin niece and nephew. I'll call my driver when I'm ready to go home.

Four doors and I'm there,I tell myself, picking up the pace, then the strongest blast of wind so far barrels into me. I duck slightly, but it knocks me back two feet.

"Forget this," I mutter, yanking open the coffee shop door. I lunge inside, relieved to escape the torturous wind, and take a spot at the back of the line.

The rich, warm aroma of roasted coffee, nuts, caramel, and pastries fills the air. Hints of chocolate, cinnamon, and vanilla dance around it, comforting me. Indie music, grinding, hissing, whistling espresso machines, and whirring blenders fight for attention.

I study the menu, decide what I want, and step forward when the line moves, staring at the back of a well-built, broad-shouldered, tall man wearing a black wool peacoat and matching cashmere scarf. His dark, thick, wavy hair is four, maybe six inches long in some parts. It's clean and styled but reeks of messy, and it's the opposite of the country club men I usually date.

Wonder if he likes women tugging on it?

The bell over the door rings, and a violent burst of cold air hits my back. I lose my balance and step forward, knocking into the man.

"Crap! I'm so sor—" My mouth turns dry and air catches in my lungs. I gape at him, unable to believe it, feeling the same ache I haven't been able to escape whenever I allow myself to think about the stranger.

Surprise fills his sharp features, and a large dimple pops out under his scar. It's a quarter-inch faded white line with just a hint of pink. It starts at his right temple, moves diagonally over his eyelid, through his nose and cheek, and down to the left side of his jaw. His short-trimmed beard fits his face perfectly, except for the area around the scar that doesn't grow.

I wonder how long he's had the scar. I assume he's in his mid-forties, between ten to fifteen years older than me. The mark looks aged. In the last year, I've devised a dozen scenarios about how he got it.

Butterflies take flight inside me, and the cold chill gets beaten back by the heat flooding my veins. I've only seen this stranger once. I ran into him at a club when I was out with Zara. He sent a bottle of the most expensive champagne to my table, then disappeared.

His lips twitch. His Caribbean blue eyes light up, and his deep Russian accent hums in my ears when he says, "I think you have an obsession with barreling into me."

I beam at him. "Or maybe you have an obsession with being in my way, so I'm forced to bang you?"

He arches his eyebrows in amusement.

My cheeks heat. "I mean, bang into you," I quickly amend.

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