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And I want her so much it’s turning into a physical ache that hurts. More than I ever thought I could have with a woman.
The thought of her leaving, of her and the baby living somewhere else, of another man possibly stepping into my role, has me clenching my fists.
She stops in front of me. Uncertainty passes over her face. I unclench my fingers and reach out. Time slows as she stares down at my hand. My heart thuds once, twice. It’s as if everyone on the terrace is holding their breath.
And then she places her hand in mine. My grip firms and I repeat my action from the night I proposed, bringing her fingers up to my lips. But unlike that night, when I merely grazed my lips over her, today I press a firm kiss on her skin.
“You look beautiful.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. A blush steals over her cheeks. “Thank you.”
The ceremony is quick, our vows simple and straightforward. Yet as I say “I do,” I make my own vow. Before our first anniversary, I will convince Alessandra that a divorce is not in our best interests or the interest of our son.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I arch a brow at Alessandra in silent challenge. She narrows her eyes even as she tilts her face up. I slide my fingers along her jaw, savor the flare of desire in her eyes and her quick inhale before I lower my head and cover her lips with my own.
Lust takes hold as I savor the taste of her. Her lips part beneath mine. I take the kiss deeper for a single moment, a torturous second, but one I don’t regret as she softens against me and leans into my chest.
The press of her stomach jolts through me. I want to touch her, to feel our son growing inside her.
I pull back. Slowly, her eyes open. She stares at me with a glazed look of desire and something else. A dark, fleeting emotion.
Fear. A feeling I know all too well as those scars on my heart start to pulse with warning. Reminders to enjoy what I have without letting myself go too far.
My hands tighten on her hips before I consciously loosen my grasp.
“Are you all right?” I whisper.
She blinks, then slowly nods. The click of a camera cuts through the moment. We both look over to see Juliette in the middle of the aisle with the camera aimed in our direction.
“It is my honor to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Michail Sullivan.” The officiant’s voice booms out over the terrace, boisterous and seemingly ignorant of the drama playing out between us. “Congratulations!”
We turn to face the guests. My mother is smiling through her tears. Tessa’s watching me, her smile dimmer and tinged with curiosity. Rafe claps, while Gavriil puts his fingers to his mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle as Juliette continues to click away.
I twine my fingers through Alessandra’s. Satisfaction spears through me as her hand grasps mine. A small step. But a step nonetheless.
My first battle was convincing Alessandra to let me be a part of the baby’s life. The second was agreeing to the marriage.
Now, as we face my family—our family—I know those battles were just the beginning in what will be a long and challenging war to convince her to keep my ring on her finger.
A war I will not lose.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alessandra
Moonlight dances acrossthe waves of the Atlantic several thousand feet below Michail’s plane as it climbs into the air. Behind us, New York City glitters like someone dropped thousands of jewels across the night landscape. Ahead of us, the sea blends into the night, a carpet of midnight dotted here and there with the occasional ship glowing on the water.
It’s easier to focus on what’s outside the plane versus what, or rather who, is inside. Two pilots man the controls of the most luxurious plane I’ve ever been in. A flight attendant brought me a cup of tea with honey just before takeoff. Now she’s working with a chef—an actual Michelin-star-rated chef—to prepare dinner in the front galley, which is the same size as the kitchen I had in my first apartment back in college. Seated toward the front in one of several plush white seats is a nurse practitioner from my doctor’s office. And sitting at a desk with his laptop opened in front of him and his phone pressed to his ear is Michail.
My husband.
I breathe in deeply, then slowly release. It’s been two days since we said our vows. I spent most of those in my room or on the terrace with my laptop, making plans for the next year. I decided to follow through on my plans of working for RegentCapital Planning through my delivery date. I can’t spend the next four months lying around Michail’s penthouse. It’s just not me. My new boss at Regent was surprisingly understanding when I told him I was now planning on taking a year to stay home with my son, and said we could see how the next few months go, then talk about the future after the baby arrived.
With that stress removed, I was able to finally start focusing on things like a crib and how I wanted to decorate the room next to mine that would become the nursery.
The baby moves, his fluttering stronger. I glance over my shoulder at Michail. He’s seated with his back to the pilot’s cabin, his thick brows drawn together in a frown as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the line. His dark hair is combed back in thick waves from his forehead. He’s wearing a white suit shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top shirt unbuttoned. Usually when I see him first thing in the morning, he has on a suit jacket. But by midday, the jacket is gone and by afternoon, the sleeves come up and the button is undone.
