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It says I’m his.
He’s mine.
We’re one before man and God.
Even the Devil can’t ignore our union.
* * *
After the longest afternoon of receiving congratulations from what must have been half of Manhattan, we finally have time for a dance. My cheeks ache from smiling so much. The butterflies who’ve escaped their cage in my stomach continue to flutter around, drunk on happiness.
Just like the first time we danced, as soon as Roman sweeps me onto the floor, the rest of the world melts away. Everything around us disappears, until it’s only me and him, our bodies moving as one, every touch, breath, and glance demands my full attention.
“You’re happy,” he notes with an edge of wonder.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m living in a fairytale today.”
“Not only for today, principessa. From this day forth, you’re my wife. You, Mrs. De Luca, shall have everything your heart desires. If you want to spend the rest of our lives renting elegant ballrooms, dancing in ball gowns, and eating catered food and drinking champagne, then you shall have it. Hell, I’ll buy you this place if you want it.”
My stomach does another flip. I have no doubt he means every word.
“I love you,” I blurt.
His steps falter. Surprise, and something darker flickers in his eyes before that damn impenetrable mask slides back into place. My gut reverses directions, plummeting.
Did I say something wrong?
Shouts draw our attention to the entrance. Glass shatters on the marble floor, and everyone quiets as they stare at the security guards who are wrestling a man to keep him from entering.
Not just any man: Nik.
He sees me and hollers, “No! You’ve married the Devil himself! He’s the Devil!”
Nik’s insane ranting dies down as he’s escorted away. Hushed murmurs sweep through our guests and a heavy cloud of uncertainty hangs over the ballroom. The moment is broken when the orchestra starts a new piece, one meant to distract from the unpleasant episode.
But the moment between Roman and I is also shattered.
“I think it’s time we leave,” he says. “The jet is waiting for us.”
“The jet? Where are we going?” As far as I know, the plan is to have a brief honeymoon in the Hamptons, then go home. There’s no reason to do anything too elaborate when celebrating an arranged marriage. Though so far, we’ve not held to the original plan at all.
“Since you seem to enjoy elegant historical venues, I’ve booked up the honeymoon suite atAirelles Château de Versailles, then we’re on to Paris for three weeks.”
“Wait. We’re going toFrance? Right now?”
He takes my hand in his. “Yes. Unless there’s another Versailles and Paris that I’m unaware of in Europe.”
“Oh my God, Roman, that’s too much.”
He frowns down at me. “Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing is too much where you’re concerned. Now, allow me to sweep you off your feet.”
And he does. Literally. Carrying me bridal style, we exit our wedding reception to a chorus of cheers.
France, here we come.
* * *
After a private jet ride to Paris, then a helicopter to Versailles, we arrive in the early hours of the morning. But I’m wide awake, having napped through a good portion of our travels.
