Page 142 of Modern Romance June 2025 1-4

I remind myself that it can’t be.

Even though he looks like a dream come true, again.

Still.

It was bad enough in that courtyard, but now, in this small chapel, he’s all I can see. His wedding suit is a feat of sartorial splendor, and I know, now, that it’s not only the cuts of fabric that exalt him, but the simple fact of his own magnificence. He is so beautiful that it hurts, and he holds my hands in his so that I hurt, too.

He slides two rings of exquisite beauty onto my finger when it is time, but I can hardly bear to look at them. Because I cannot bear to look away from him.

I feel the weight of his gaze inside of me, as if he is turning me inside out. As if he can see every last part of me, like some kind of searchlight.

“You may kiss your bride,Excelentísimo Señor,” the priest says, with an encouraging nod.

And Taio does.

He gathers me into his arms. He tilts me back and I find this unforgivable. His hands on me. That simmering gleam in his gaze, his stern mouth. If I didn’t know better, I would think he is something like possessive.

But the true issue is that it feels too much like that night, and this is meant to be reality—

His mouth finds mine, and it’s as if we spiral right back to that enchanted little cottage sitting there on a cliff in France.

Where everything is possible, and we are connected, naked and vulnerable and wide open.

As if I didn’t imagine those things.

As if they are always right here, available to us, if we want them—

I kiss him back.

I put my hands on his lapels and hold on, while he does things with his tongue that light me up, everywhere.

But we are in the presence of a holy man, in a sacred place. Taio pulls away. I try not to let my shockingly weak knees go out from beneath me as the ceremony concludes and we turn to walk back out into the sunshine.

“There,” he says when we stop just outside the chapel’s doors. “It’s done now.”

And again I see that hard gleam on his face, as if this is a victory, but I can’t make that make any sense.

“I don’t know why we needed a whole bridal display,” I say, frowning at him. “We could as easily have filed a few papers down at—”

But I lapse off into silence when he slides his hand over to hold my face.

He just…holds me.

And I can feel the metal of the ring he now wears, warming against my skin. I can feel the heat and strength of his hand. His gaze seems like it’sinsideme.

I can feel myself struggle to get a breath in.

“It’s nice to meet you at last, wife,” he says, his voice gruff and the strangest look in his gaze. Possessive, yes. But also something like tender.

I want to say,you have known me forever,because it feels true. But I know it isn’t.

“Hello,” I say, because I can’t seem to help myself. I move my face to nestle my cheek in his palm. “Husband.”

And then, together, we walk back up to the house. He twines his fingers with mine, and I remember the first time he did this. I feel the wash of heat and longing.

Only now, I cannot seem to stop thinking,we are husband and wife.

And how a white dress and his hand on me makes me want, desperately, for that to mean something more than simply a legal arrangement for our child.

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