Page 8 of Not His Bride

Fabric pools behind me when I finally step forward. The swish as it moves over the runner makes it seem like I’m floating.

Dad was supposed to walk me down the aisle. Ten minutes ago, Debbie got overwhelmed and started crying so hard that Mom said she couldn’t be left alone. Dad went to sit with them. I told him that it was fine. And it is. I’m used to plans changing when Debbie needs something.

Debbie watches from the front row. She’s already crying—probably for effect. Her gaze, though, misses nothing, least of all me. Debbie and I have always had our differences. She’s not cruel, but she’d do anything to be the center of attention. I’m half expecting her to start sobbing uncontrollably so the gossip sites can run, “SUPPORTIVE JOVI SISTER WEEPS FROM FRONT ROW.”

Mom and Dad sit next to her, appearing pleased.

But none of that matters because Gallagher is at the altar.

He stands beside Sherb, who my parents hired to officiate us. Sherb also happens to be a long-time family friend and just so happens to run the third largest clothing line in the United States.

Gallagher is right there. My heart goes stupid on me again. Apparently, seeing him in the bridal suite was one thing. But seeing the same man standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for me, makes me forget there are people watching. All the polish from earlier is gone. He tries for a smile, the same one he gave me in the bridal suite. That helps, weirdly. If Gallagher Cortez can look a little nervous about this, then I’m allowed to be, too.

Heather steps forward and takes my bouquet from me.

Gallagher’s hands unclasp, and he reaches for me. He wraps both of mine in his, palms warm and steady. I squeeze back.

Sherb begins, his voice deep and so clearly in command that everyone else disappears. Having practically lived in a boardroom, when he speaks, everyone listens.

“We gather to witness the joining of these families—” And off he goes into his speech.

I wonder if anyone can tell I’m shaking. Gallagher probably can since he has both of my hands cradled between his.

Sherb goes into merger language, saying things like legacy, union, business, and all the other terms my father would approve of. He pivots to the vows last.

Gallagher’s goes first.

“I promise to see you, Lilith, as you are, and not as anyone expects you to be. I will…” He pauses. Not like he’s searching for words, but like he’s surprised by the hitch in his own voice. “I will listen and put you first from this moment on.”

My turn.

“I promise to be honest with you, even when it would be easier to keep things to myself. I promise to listen when you tell me who you are, instead of deciding I already know. And whatever this marriage becomes, I promise I’ll give it everything I have. I’m honored to be your wife.”

Gallagher’s thumb presses along my knuckle, effectively steadying my hands. Then, he takes the dainty gold band and slides it onto my finger. I turn my hand, staring at my finger. Gallagher’s ring. My wedding ring.

He exhales, and I feel him lose a notch of tension.

Next, I slide his heavier band over his knuckle and onto his finger.

“By the authority granted,” Sherb begins, but Gallagher doesn’t wait.

Cupping my face, he pulls me into a kiss that traps a startled gasp in my throat. I grip the front of his jacket to anchor myself against him as applause crashes over us.

“I now pronounce you man and wife!” Sherb finishes loudly over the noise.

Gallagher doesn’t let go. Not when I expect him to, and not even when I hear my sister’s laugh slice through the crowd. My fingers stay curled into his jacket. Apparently, I’m not letting go, either.

When he finally releases me, it’s only to drop his forehead to mine, breathing me in. I’m smiling. I can feel how stupidly wide it is, but I don’t care.

Chapter 4

Lilith

After our guests have cocktail hour, and Gallagher and I take pictures, we head straight to the reception for dinner. There are lights everywhere, like icicle chandeliers, countless bulbs strung across the ceiling, camera flashes from select reporters my family favors. My dress looks even more expensive under this lighting, which is the point.

Gallagher and I sit in the center of a long head table on a low dais at the front of the ballroom. Our parents and the wedding party take up the rest of it, while everyone else is spread across large round tables below us, each dressed in ivory linen and set apart so nobody has to squeeze past a chair. Hundreds of people, all with a clear view of where we’re sitting.

Gold is everywhere. The chairs, the rims of the glasses, the tall candleholders running between arrangements of white roses. Even the menus have thin gold borders around our names.