Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
I can’t decide whether my bride looks more beautiful in her dress or out of it.
The soft ivory concoction of lace and silk keeps me on the edge between lust so hot I worry it will singe my veins to ash, and love so profound I think it might actually stop my heart before the desire finishes me off.
Even when her hand lands in mine for the hundredth time, I can’t help but skim my eyes down the flared bodice covered with tiny lace-and-pearl flowers, across the cool sweep of thin silk cascading over her hips.
If someone put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what style or design it is. But here, in the glow of a hundred candles, my bride looks like some dazzling combination of an angel and a siren, wrapped up in white.
For me.
My bride.
I will never tire of thinking the words or saying them out loud. Of all the things I’ve worked for in my life, the honor of waiting for Alice at the end of the aisle is by far my greatest accomplishment.
A warm vein of amusement and pride cuts through me every time I recall the way she put me through my paces. The months I spent rebuilding her trust, attending therapy on my own and with her, planning every date I could think of.
I built her library. Her art studio. I had hard conversations with Grayson about my role in the company and my commitments to the family I want to create. I got to use every long, exhausting, wonderful day to prove myself to Alice and let her love me back.
Nothing has ever been more worthwhile.
Now, Alice’s delicate hands slide over the lapels of my tuxedo while her blue eyes beam up at me. With her wedding makeup and soft curls framing her gorgeous face, she’s honestly never looked more beautiful. Or happier.
Her gaze tracks my expression. The lush curves of her lips quirk to the side. “Ready to go back to our room, Mr. Amir?”
I should have known she would see that I desperately want her to myself. With a rueful chuckle, I sweep her closer, pressing her hips to my thighs. “I’m that obvious, hmm?”
Her sweet little laugh bubbles between us. She leans back and sweeps her gaze over our reception. “I think I’m ready, too, actually.”
She sounds surprised. I definitely am. Planning a wedding with a professional wedding planner is one thing—but planning one with a woman who has been dreaming of every detail for her entire life? The process was intense, and the results are spectacular.
I look around, hoarding every last facet of her brilliance. The soft, snowy drapes of fabric, thousands of candles, crystal chandeliers dripping with orchids so white they sparkle, a canopy of greenery swaying over everything.
It took a lot of work for Alice to admit that her dream wedding couldn’t happen in New York City.
She still hates to feel burdensome or demanding, even though I constantly assure her she’s neither.
Eventually, in one of our therapy sessions, she admitted to feeling unworthy of grand, special things.
That conversation unlocked a lot for us.
She finally started to work through that nagging sense of unworthiness, and I turned my attention to proving it wrong through actions.
Two days later, I booked a block of rooms at Maui’s Four Seasons.
A week after that, Alice discovered the venue of her dreams, and I placed a nonrefundable deposit before she could talk herself out of it.
But every moment of anxiety and every cent I’ve spent has been more than worth it. The hotel is already a beautiful setting, but once my sweet girl got her brilliant hands on it, the place became a masterpiece.
My bride finishes surveying our surroundings and shudders through a deep breath. Tears brighten her eyes when they flit back to mine. Her palm smooths over my jaw, gentling me before I can get concerned.
“You made all my dreams come true today,” she whispers. “Thank you, Marco.”
Ah, hell.
I already teared up when Alice appeared at the end of the aisle and started walking toward me. Then—and I’ll never admit this—I fought back more emotion during Graham Fucking Everett’s toast.
But I can’t attempt to hide the way my vision mists when I see that look on her face.
My arms cinch around her body, lifting it into mine while I hide my face against her neck. “For you? Anything,” I murmur, repeating the promise I made that night on the rooftop, and again during our vows.
When I finally put her down, my focus shifts to figuring out how we can extricate ourselves from our own wedding. Before I get very far, Jules appears, smirking. Mischief gilds her gold eyes while they bounce between our faces. “You guys making a run for it?”
Her dress matches the champagne clutched in her hand. Alice spent weeks agonizing over the color, wanting one that looked good on all of her bridesmaids. I personally haven’t noticed whether she succeeded or not.
Alice’s cheeks pink as Jules’s smile grows suggestive. A second later, Everett staggers over, drunkenly hooking his arm around his wife’s waist and pulling her in for a sloppy kiss to the cheek.
“Mm, bijou,” he groans. His bleary eyes slip over to us, grin widening. “Oh-ho, you guys gonna go off and do it?”
Two years have gone by and I still cannot decide if I need to kick his ass.
“Everett, this is our wedding,” I remind him.
He shrugs loosely, rumpling the ridiculous gold-trimmed dinner jacket he insisted on wearing over his white groomsman shirt. And—dear God—is that a glittery bow tie? Where and how did he stash that away?
“We tried to tell you to bang it out before the ceremony,” he taunts, still smirking. “But you two wanted to go traditional.”
It’s true. Aside from a few stolen moments in hotel hallways, Alice and I haven’t been alone together in days. We decided to abstain from sex for the week leading up to the wedding, and I have big plans to make up for lost time on our honeymoon. I have big plans for the honeymoon, period.
“Ignore him.” Juliet laughs, rolling her eyes. “We’ll get you out of here.”
I look at Alice for approval. She’s the one who knows what our big photo-ops are. A sly smile slides over her beautiful face, glowing up at me.
What do you think? she asks silently. Time to sneak away?
I gather her closer, flashing a grin. Past time.
Graham rubs his hands together, snickering. “So, we need a diversion, huh?” A wicked smirk clears the bleariness from his gaze. “I’ve been preparing for this moment all my life.”
He slings my cousin toward the dance floor, spinning her into the center and lunging after her. All of our guests clap and cheer, fully immersed as Graham whirls a laughing Juliet into a dip that has her hair brushing the floor.
Alice’s musical giggle has me hauling her into my arms, bridal style. “Come on, Mrs. Amir,” I rumble, nuzzling her neck. “I believe you have a honeymoon suite waiting for you.”
“And you,” she replies.
But it isn’t waiting for me—I was already in there earlier today, making sure everything would be perfect for my bride.
If she notices how I know the path to the room by heart, or how I have a key card waiting in my back pocket, Alice doesn’t comment. She keeps her sparkling blue eyes on my face, smiling softly while I carry her all the way to the west-facing portion of the top floor.
I shove into the room with my shoulder, pleased with whichever turndown staff member has followed the instructions I left behind.
They’ve dimmed the lights exactly as I requested, showcasing the flickering candles and snowy orchids floating in dozens of clear glass bowls scattered along the edges of the room.
“Oh my God!” Alice whispers as I gently set her on her feet before the foot of the massive, white-trimmed bed. “This is beautiful.”
My wife’s awe makes her impossibly more lovely. A fresh surge of pride tightens my chest while I take her in, wanting to remember every single moment of our first night as husband and wife.
The wonder stays on her face, but a pinch of suspicion appears between her eyebrows. “Marco…” She twists toward the bed, with its custom white silk sheets and the pink rose petals scattered over them. “What did you do?”
I shrug, trying to play it off while I wrap my arms around her middle and step up behind her. “Nothing, really. Just the flowers. And a few other things.”
My sweet girl turns her dubious eyes to mine. “A few other things?” she cries quietly. “Are you saying that every honeymoon suite comes with my favorite bottle of wine?” She points a finger at the Tuscan red on the dresser. “And they all smell like my favorite candles? And have white silk bedding?”
I wince, not wanting to lie to her. I knew she’d be familiar with the suite’s standard amenities, but I hadn’t expected her to immediately pick up on everything I’ve added to match the photos from her shoebox the second we walked into the room.
Well, almost everything.
As if reading my mind, my wife reaches down to scoop up the train of her dress and marches toward the bathroom… where the suite’s brand-new jetted tub burbles quietly, petals and bubbles spinning graceful circles on the surface of the water.
Alice blinks at the scene, including the matching satin robes with our married monogram—AAM—embroidered on the fronts. There is a black one for me and a white one for her, exactly like the photo that inspired the idea.
When she spins back to me, her arms are crossed, but a tiny smile plays at her gorgeous lips. “Marco Amir. This room did not have a jetted tub. I specifically asked when we booked it and checked again when I finalized things last month.”
I can’t help the grin pulling at my mouth. “I may have made a few improvements for my bride.”
Alice slowly soaks in our surroundings again, trailing her gaze over the little things I’ve thought of to make the night more special for her. When her eyes finally land back on mine, her lower lip starts to tremble.