Page 29 of Bride on the Dotted Line

The courthouse is small and plain, pungent with the smell of air freshener, wood, and old leather. Nick is at the head of the room, waiting at the altar. It isn’t really an altar. It’s a wooden table with three vases of white and pink flowers on it, arrangements matching the bouquet I’m holding.

“Please rise,” the officiant, an older woman with bright red lipstick, says.

Chairs creak. Nick turns around, attention landing straight on me. He runs a hand over the back of his neck.

We haven’t seen each other in person since we signed the contract at Blackstone Center. He looks incredible: a fresh haircut, a smooth shave. The cut of his black suit accentuates his height, his jacket spotless and perfectly fitting as always.

God, one half of my brain says.He’s like a magazine cutout.

Shut up,replies the other half.Start walking.

Our photographer hovers at the side of the room behind a huge lens, capturing the scene. I move down the aisle, passing Lena and Mason, who give me little smiles. I hand my bouquet to Mason. He smirks and mops pretend tears from his eyes. Lena elbows him.

On the other side of the aisle, Victor Harwood hasn’t bothered to stand from his seat. His gaze follows my movements carefully while Nick’s lawyer leans to whisper something in his ear. I acknowledge them with a tilt of my head, and—well—Alvin returns it, at least.

What does Victor think of me? Should I care? He’s playing his cards close to the chest, and we still haven’t been introduced. He’s here, at least. I’m taking that as his conditional approval, even if Nick hasn’t told him who my dad is.

And then there I am, standing in front of the city’s hottest, most notorious heir, looking up into his dark eyes. My stomach somersaults. His throat ripples in a swallow.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

We turn to the officiant and the wedding begins.

“We are gathered here today …”

As the officiant reads from her book, my body tingles all over—stage fright. I focus on my breathing, each inhale and exhale drawing me deeper into the moment. Warmth radiates from Nick. His scent is comforting and familiar, like breakfast in the wilderness, a summertime sunrise.

What he said at our dinner comes back to me:We’d all have a win in this, Sienna. Dad can hand over the company peacefully, shareholders get the image they want and begin to reinvest, I secure the CEO role my mom wanted for me … and you secure enough money to consider your father’s past a small issue.

Three months starting today. After that, Dad is free. I’m finally free, and it’s all because of the man standing beside me.

As the officiant reads from her book, I shift slightly. My arm brushes against his. It’s an accident, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he subtly adjusts, moving a little closer, his warmth pressing into my side. Not pushy, or forceful, butthere.

That’s what the tabloids should be reporting about Nick Harwood. Not the fake scandals or headlines, but the quiet steadiness of him. He’s like a mountain. Or an oak tree. Or a … skyscraper. I don’t know.

We stand until the rings are produced, and the officiant says, “Do you, Sienna, take Nick to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” I say, facing Nick and placing my hands in his. Our fingers entwine more effortlessly than I expected. I slide his wedding band on.

“And do you, Nick, take Sienna to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” he says from above me. I can feel his breath move in the hair around my face. He guides my ring onto my finger.

The officiant flips forward in her book. There’s a pause, and I gaze at the ring on my left hand. The diamond is exquisite, the gold band thin and elegant.

Nick leans down, mouth to my ear.

“The diamond was my mother’s. I hope it’s sufficient.”

Prickles erupt across my skin. When he straightens again, I can only blink at him. We’ve never spoken about Laurie Harwood. I’ve done enough research to know that she and Nick were close, but … the sentimental value of this ring is real, even if he and I’s relationship isn’t.

“Of course it’s sufficient,” I whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

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