Chapter 1 #2
Yuki works quickly, fingers flying over hooks and buttons.
The gown comes away piece by piece—bodice, skirt, the elaborate architecture of it lifted carefully from my body.
I'm left standing in my wedding lingerie, ivory silk and lace that my friend Eve designed for me.
The delicate bra with its pale blue ribbon accents, the bikini panties with their matching bows, sheer stockings with lace tops.
Sofia holds out the cream silk robe. I slip my arms through, belt it tight.
"The veil," I whisper. "Can we—"
Yuki shakes her head. "Too many pins. It must be done very carefully, and Nadiyah should be the one to remove it for you."
Fine. He can see the veil. The dress is what matters.
I check my reflection. Robe covering me from shoulders to mid-thigh, the neckline gaping just enough to show a hint of lace, the swell of silk beneath. The veil trails down my back, pearls catching light.
It will have to do.
I open the door.
Nick stands near Serena and Tasha, but the moment I appear, he goes utterly still.
The full force of his attention lands on me.
He's in a charcoal suit, no tie, collar open at his throat. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it. And those eyes, deep cerulean blue, intense, tracking down my body with the kind of heated focus that makes my breath catch.
His gaze moves from the robe to the veil cascading behind me. Then it halts at the glimpse of lace riding the swell of my breasts.
His jaw tightens. His right hand flexes at his side—the scarred one, the one that carries the map of everything he survived.
"You're stunning." His voice is rough, private, pitched in a tone that makes my pulse beat a little faster.
"You're not supposed to see me like this." I'm barefoot on the carpet, hyperaware of the silk against my skin, my near nakedness beneath. "Any of this."
He shrugs, unrepentant. "I don't give a damn about superstitions.
" He closes the distance between us. Four strides.
Close enough that I can smell the faint hint of clean skin, dark spices, something warm underneath that's just him.
He grins down at me. "Though I am sorry your team had to witness my complete lack of restraint. "
His hand rises, but he doesn't touch me. His fingers find the edge of the veil instead, where the pearl beading trails down beside my face. He traces the delicate work, reverent and precise, and the gesture feels intimate despite our audience. Like he's touching me through the fabric.
"This is extraordinary."
"Our new master embroiderer created it especially for Avery." Serena steps forward, professional composure restored. "Nadiyah Marchal. Twenty years of experience in Paris and the Gulf."
Nick turns slightly, acknowledging Nadiyah where she now stands near the workroom entrance. "It's museum-quality craftsmanship. Thank you for creating something worthy of her."
Nadiyah inclines her head, but her expression shows no pride, nor humility.
Just her usual unreadable calm and quiet watchfulness.
Her gaze lingers on Nick a moment longer than necessary.
But then everyone looks at Nick that way.
He commands attention without trying, fills rooms simply by existing in them.
He meets my eyes once more, the heat in them unmistakable. "How much longer will you be?"
Serena answers before I can scold him again for barging into my private appointment unannounced. “Actually, we were just about to wrap up, Mr. Baine.”
“Good.” He grins at me, unrepentant. “Have lunch with me.”
As much as I want to punish him—or at least make him work for it—I can’t deny that the idea of going somewhere nice for a bite to eat with him sounds a lot better than my plans to finish up here, then run one of the dozen or so pre-wedding errands on this week’s to-do list.
"Fine, but I think I should change clothes first."
“Need some help getting undressed?” His mouth curves in a sexy smirk he knows I can’t resist.
“Out.” I point in the direction of the reception area, fixing him with my firmest look. "You've already broken enough rules for one day. Go wait for me in the lobby."
"You're giving me orders?"
"Yes, I am."
His eyes darken. He leans close, his breath warm against my ear: "Don't keep me waiting long. You know I'm not a patient man. At least not when it comes to you."
I smile, finding it impossible to be annoyed with him.
“Ladies,” he says, nodding to Serena, Tasha, and the others, then disappears toward the lobby.
“I should get going too,” Tasha says, checking her watch. “We’ve got a large private party coming into Vendange at one. I need to make sure everything’s ready for them.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks for everything, Tasha.”
She blows me a kiss, then gathers her purse and jacket and heads out.
Serena’s team descends on me, unpinning the veil with careful hands. Yuki works in focused silence, protecting my hair, protecting the delicate fabric. I slip back into my jeans and cream silk blouse, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders.
When I emerge into the lobby, Nick is leaning against the wall near the windows, scrolling through his phone. The moment I appear he pockets the device, walking forward to meet me. His hand slides to the small of my back. "Ready?"
"Where are you taking me?"
"Cipriani." His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine. "I made a reservation."
Cipriani Downtown. White tablecloths, impeccable service, one of our favorite spots when we want good food without the fuss of being seen somewhere trendier. The thought of sitting across from him, sharing a quiet meal together, loosens some of the tension in my chest.
"That sounds perfect."
We step through the front door onto the sidewalk, and I lift my face to the sun. The late September air is warm, the usual Manhattan foot traffic flowing past, and for a moment I let myself breathe.
But something prickles with unease at the edge of my awareness. A wall of photographers materializes like they'd been hiding in plain sight. Watching. Waiting.
My stomach tightens before my mind catches up.
The flashes erupt. Shouts overlap, aggressive and invasive voices crashing over me.
"Avery! Over here!"
"Nick! How does it feel marrying a woman whose mother's a convicted killer?"
"Did you pay for your mother-in-law’s parole, Nick?"
"Avery, what do you say to people who accuse you of being a gold-digger?"
"Any comment on your stepfather, Avery? Do you think he got what he deserved?"
I freeze. My feet just stop moving, my legs refusing to function. All the breath in my lungs seizes up as the ugly questions bombard us.
One of the men thrusts a camera toward my face. Nick's hand shoots out, knocking the paparazzo’s arm aside before it can touch me. “Back off! All of you, back the fuck off. Now.”
He doesn't wait for them to comply. His arm bands around my waist, hauling me against him, his body a shield between me and the cameras as he propels me toward his BMW parked at the curb. He wrenches open the passenger door and I slide in, my hands shaking so badly I can barely find the seatbelt.
Nick rounds the hood in three strides, drops into the driver's seat, and pulls the door shut.
The shouts go muffled, distant. Flashes still strobe against the tinted windows, but inside the car it's quiet. Just the leather seats and the hum of the engine and my own ragged breathing filling the space between us.
I'm shaking. Can't stop. The questions echo in my skull. Convicted killer. Gold-digger. Got what he deserved—
Nick's hand finds my face, turning me toward him. His palm is warm against my cheek, solid and grounding, and I lean into it without thinking.
"Hey. Baby, look at me."
I meet his eyes. Blue. Fierce. Furious, but not at me. Never at me.
"I'm okay," I manage.
"You're not." His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, gentle despite the tension in his jaw. "And you shouldn't have to be. I’m sorry about all of this."
I nod shakily. My hand rises to cover his, pressing his palm closer against my skin. The texture of his scars beneath my fingers, the steady heat of him, anchors me when everything else feels like it's spinning.
His jaw is tight, the rage barely contained. But when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, gentling. "Fuck the restaurant. I'm taking you home instead. I'll cook for you, how’s that sound? Just us."
The promise of quiet, of privacy, of sanctuary is exactly what I need now. The tightness in my chest finally loosens its grip. "Okay," I whisper.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, making sure I'm with him. Then he pulls out of the parking space, leaving the photographers scrambling on the sidewalk behind us.
I settle back against the leather seat and watch the city slide past through tinted glass. Nick's hand finds mine on the center console, his fingers threading through mine and holding tight. I focus on that. On him. On the warmth of his grip, the steady pulse I can feel against my palm.
"I've got you," he says. His voice is quieter now, the rage banked to something softer. "Always."
I know he does. Nick has been there for me from the moment we met. My protector. My safe harbor in every storm.
I love this man with all that I am. I want to be his wife more than anything, and nothing can ever change that.
But a handful of weeks from now, hundreds of people will gather to watch me walk down the aisle toward him. Cameras will capture every moment, whether we want them there or not. Reporters will clamor to get their stories.
Was this a glimpse of what we’ll be facing on our wedding day?
I hold on tighter to Nick’s hand and let the question go unanswered.