Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The twins were nearly at the end of the aisle now.
One of them tipped her basket too far and dumped half the petals in a pink avalanche at her own feet. Han marched the remaining distance with fierce concentration until he spotted someone he knew and waved enthusiastically. At the altar he fist-bumped every groomsman before taking his position.
Bea shifted beside Papa, careful not to crush the hem of her dress.
Ahead of them, the aisle stretched over the beach like a long pale ribbon. Flowers cascaded on either side in lush drifts, white and champagne. At the far end, where the ocean kissed the sky, the circular platform appeared to have risen from the sea, the altar framed with fabric curved like sails.
She’d seen sketches and mood boards. Nothing compared to what Rafael’s team had made into reality.
The string quartet drew one long, shimmering line. Three hundred and fifty guests rose. A piano followed, the notes rippling over the sand. How they’d managed to get a baby grand across a hundred feet of beach, Bea had no idea.
Rows of people turned toward her and Papa. For a fleeting second she felt too small for the moment. Her chest rose and fell unevenly beneath her abuela’s mantilla, fingers going damp around the flowers she held.
This is too much for a girl from Toronto.
Then Rafael’s eyes found hers. A slow ache spread through her chest. Cream linen, three pieces, shirt open at the collar. The moment she saw him, everything inside her settled.
Her feet moved.
Papa guided her forward. The aisle went on forever. Faces emerged from the blur: mentors, friends, family. Halmoni stood closest to the aisle, four foot eleven of unyielding authority. As she passed, her grandmother gave the smallest nod. Umma pressed a tissue to her cheek.
Bea’s balance wavered just enough that Papa’s hand tightened at her elbow. She blinked, determined to preserve both mascara and dignity.
“Almost there, mija,” Papa said, steadily. “You look beautiful. I’m so proud of you.”
The words hit harder than she expected. Her throat was hot with gratefulness. “I love you, Papa.”
Her bridesmaids were beaming, sniffling, a line of French-blue gowns, each cut differently. Claire made the tiniest fist-pump. Georgina shamelessly leaned into the aisle and took a selfie. The groomsmen formed a quiet flank by Rafael. Beside them, Selene and Leon glowed with pride.
Finally they reached the end. Rafael stepped forward.
Papa swallowed. “Take care of my daughter.”
Rafael met his gaze. “Always.”
Papa squeezed his shoulder. Then he kissed her forehead and, eyes watery, let her go.
Bea felt hollow for one second. Then felt Rafael’s warm hand close around hers. She looked up and saw the satisfaction and possession burning in his green gaze. The familiar scent of him, clean with a hint of spice, grounded her.
“Hello, Bea,” he murmured, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
Her heartbeat kicked at the way he’d said that. She was transported to the St. Ives Welcome Gala, where she’d met him for the first time by candlelight.
Peace unfurled in her chest. For years he’d looked at her like she was both choice and destiny. Now she was choosing him with her whole life in her hands.
“Hi,” she breathed, smiling back. “Mr. Shark.”
RAFAEL
The marquee was ten thousand feet of pure spectacle.
A canopy of lights arched overhead like a private sky, glass walls opening the entire room to the dark ocean beyond.
Trees had been planted inside the structure itself, branches rising through clouds of flowers and candlelight.
An entire world built for a single night.
Across the room, Leon Griffin and Pepe Cruz were departing the carving table, plates piled high with meat from the roast pigs they’d successfully lobbied for, like two boys who had raided the kitchen.
Rafael’s gaze moved past them and landed on the only thing in the room capable of dazzling him: his wife.
Bea hadn’t let him see her wedding dress in advance.
It fit close over her ribs, the sweetheart neckline low enough that from his vantage point he could see what awaited his touch.
Her shoulders and upper back were bare, and the sleeves fell in soft waves down to her wrists.
From halfway down her spine, buttons trailed like a long, deliberate taunt to the limitations of man. His palms actually itched.
“Stop staring,” she whispered.
“Impossible.”
He checked his watch. Minutes, and then the torment would end.
The host called them up, inviting him to the moment where he could hold her, just not the way he needed. Tradition for the crowd, torture for him.
Rafael took her hand and led her to the floor. She moved into him eagerly, no hesitation, smelling like vanilla and everything he meant to savor for a lifetime.
The first note—
No. Not a note. It was bass.
Filthy, unmistakable bass that belonged in a club, not as a first dance.
Pony.
For one suspended heartbeat, the marquee froze collectively, as if nobody could quite believe what they were hearing.
Then decorum snapped.
Her bridesmaids screamed in unison. The groomsmen howled.
Claire fell into Lillian shrieking, “THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
Hunter choked on whisky. Georgina yelled, “SOMEONE HOLD MY FLOWERS.”
From the front table, Halmoni thumped her cane once in moral outrage. Rafael doubted she understood the lyrics, but she clearly understood the sentiment.
Auntie Linda was already on her feet, martini raised, hips swaying as she yelled, “NOW THIS IS A WEDDING.”
Bea grabbed his lapel, face in his chest, laughing so hard she shook.
His gaze cut to the DJ booth. Laurent stood there with a drink in hand, raising it in a lazy salute, entirely too entertained for a bastard with a death wish.
Rafael knew instantly: he’d figured out about the abstinence. He hadn’t said anything, but he knew.
He turned back to Bea. She was watching him, dark eyes bright with mirth and something that felt like adoration.
Look at me like that forever. I’d burn the world for you.
Slowly, he slid his hand down her spine to her waist, and felt a new type of tremble in her. She melted into his palm like she’d been waiting for the touch all night. Her fingers gripped his shoulder. This moment still belonged to them.
They dropped into the beat on the same breath. Their bodies locked in on instinct, heat and timing with no thought of steps. The crowd roared its approval. Bea’s papa covered both his and Umma’s eyes, but kept watching through his fingers.
Rafael’s grip shifted to the middle of her back. He angled his right foot behind hers, tipping his chin the slightest fraction. A barely there signal. Bea understood like he’d spoken it. One arm looped around his neck, her expression said: do it.
He dipped her, smooth and deep. So low her long hair brushed the floor. Held her there, supported entirely by him, and the tent swung from feral to unhinged, every guest towed into their gravity.
Flashes. Someone screamed, “THEY PRACTICED, THEY DEFINITELY PRACTICED.”
At that moment, Rafael decided to let Laurent live.
“Okay,” the host said, laughing into the mic. “Before we lose complete control of this event—there’s one more surprise. Please turn to the screens.”
Rafael pulled Bea up carefully. The marquee dimmed.
Nico appeared midmotion, camera slightly off-kilter, dark hair cropped. Bea’s face lit up instantly.
“Okay, so technically I’m not supposed to be recording on base—” A distant voice yelled something.
Nico didn’t flinch. “I’ve only got forty-seven seconds, so let’s go.
You two finally locked it down. Some people might say it was fast, but honestly I’ve been pretending not to notice this situation for at least a year. ”
The crowd roared. Rafael caught every word, even as his attention kept drifting back to Bea. She was so damn radiant. That joy was his to protect now.
“Bea: you bullied me into finishing essays, fed me when I complained, and somehow made school stop feeling like punishment. Respect.” His grin widened. “El Jefe: if I turn out to be half the man you are, I’ll call that a win. Also, that Krav Maga move you taught me? Came in handy.”
A voice barked something sharper behind him. Nico leaned slightly closer to the camera. “Happy wedding. I wish I was there.”
He almost tapped the screen, then stopped, like an afterthought had just struck. “Oh—and make sure you wait until I’m back from military exile before you make an intimidating multilingual genius baby. I’m calling godfather.”
Nico straightened and snapped a crisp salute. “Cadet reporting.”
The screen cut to black.
Nico’s mother, Marie, and Bea both wiped their cheeks. His father Stefano looked like a man trying very hard not to stand and salute his son through the screen.
Leon shouted through cupped hands, “PROMOTE THAT YOUNG MAN.”
The section nearest them started chanting Nico’s name before dissolving into laughter.
While the room was still buzzing, Claire slipped in and grabbed the microphone before the host had regained command of the room, like a stand-up comic spotting a captive audience.
Rafael pulled Bea’s back into his chest, both arms anchoring her to him.
Claire cleared her throat. “I’ll keep this short because Rafael’s probably thirty seconds from ignoring three hundred and fifty witnesses and abducting the bride.”
The room erupted again. Someone near the back shouted, “DO IT.”
The thought had crossed his mind. Sixty-five times.
“Beya Slaya once told me Rafael was ‘a little intense.’” Claire smiled sweetly at him. “She undersold that by several orders of magnitude.”
More laughter rolled through the marquee, warm and approving now, glasses lifted everywhere. Claire lifted her own.
“But she’s always deserved someone who looks at her like she’s the best decision he’ll ever make.”
Claire had barely finished when Laurent appeared beside her and appropriated the microphone. “To the only woman who could make Rafael Griffin patient.”
A server materialized at Rafael’s elbow and slipped two champagne flutes into their hands.
Laurent lifted his glass. “Bea. The man has suffered.” That smirk meant trouble. “I wish you…endurance, tonight.”
The marquee detonated again.
Bea buried her face in her hands, laughing and blushing, very deliberately not looking toward the table where her parents and Halmoni were seated.
Rafael noticed the twins had crawled under a nearby table, chins propped in their hands, watching with the fascinated focus of children learning far more about marriage than anyone intended.
They drank. Their empty glasses vanished almost immediately onto a passing tray.
Piano chords filled the room. Bea glanced around, hearing the intro of their actual first dance song. He drew her in, chest to chest, one hand firm at her back, the other still holding hers.
Rafael needed to kiss her properly, but stopped himself. A kiss would be the start of something that didn’t stop.
He murmured against her ear, low and hungry, “Ten weeks ends tonight.”
Bea lifted onto her toes, barely a breath of voice. “Yes, please.”
Her response was a hit of pure oxygen to his bloodstream.
“Dance with me.” The words were more growled than spoken. “Before I prove Claire right.”