Chapter 12 Melanie
MELANIE
The butterflies in my stomach weren’t gentle flutters anymore—they were a frenzied swarm, clawing at my insides like they wanted out.
My breath hitched as I stared at myself in the mirror, palms damp against the edge of the sink.
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I could still back out.
Just walk out the door, pretend this never happened.
But then his face—the one I tried so hard to forget—flashed in my mind.
Cold, cruel. A reminder of what I left behind.
No matter how hollow I felt now, it was nothing compared to living in fear. I would never go back.
The room was quiet. Just us, in this strange, temporary pocket of safety. The hotel suite was a blur of neutral tones and sterile lighting, but we’d claimed our own corners—conjoined but separate. Separate beds, separate lives. No danger of being recognized here. No danger of the truth.
A soft knock. My pulse skipped. I turned slowly, heart thudding against my ribs, and there he was—Nick.
Standing in the doorway like he owned it.
His eyes swept over me, slow and deliberate, and for one breathless second, something raw flickered there—desire, hot and unfiltered.
But it vanished just as quickly, blinked away behind his familiar mask of indifference.
I suddenly felt the weight of the dress cling tighter to my skin.
It was the only nice thing I could afford—a silky white number that hugged my curves like it knew too much.
The slit ran high up my thigh, exposing more skin than I usually dared—strapless, with a built-in push-up bra that pushed my breasts up and out like a dare.
I let my hair fall in loose waves down my back, pinning one side up with a glittering barrette—an illusion of effort.
Makeup flawless, practiced, and years in the film industry had taught me a thing or two about transformation.
“You look…beautiful,” Nick said, voice barely above a whisper. So soft, it felt like a secret.
“Thank you,” I murmured, gaze dropping to the floor. The air between us felt charged—too thick, too intimate. I shifted my weight, unsure where to stand.
He looked devastating, of course, like something out of a dream you wake up aching from.
The deep navy of his U.S. Army uniform was crisp, the medals pinned across his chest gleaming under the lamplight.
I recognized them. All of them. He’d earned every one of those years of service, of sacrifice, written in ribbons and badges.
“Did you check your b—”
“Yes,” I cut him off. “I gave myself an insulin shot thirty minutes ago. I’m fine.”
“Good. I don’t want you passing out down the aisle. Won’t be convincing in the pictures.”
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips, but I swallowed it, stepping forward. “I brought this. Since I’m assuming we’ll need a ring.”
I pulled the ring out of my purse—a dazzling band encircled in tiny diamonds.
Real, but old. A relic from a different life.
My mom bought it for me when I was sixteen, after I told her I wanted to be like her—elegant, poised, always sparkling when we went out.
It was supposed to be a symbol of who I could become.
“This should work as a fake engagement ring—with real diamonds, though,” I said, handing it to him.
A smirk ghosted across his lips. Subtle, but there.
“What?” I asked, brows knitting.
Without a word, he pulled a small blue box from his jacket. The kind of box that changed lives. He opened it, and my breath caught. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a ring that made mine look like a toy. A princess-cut diamond gleamed atop a delicate rose gold band—simple, elegant, unforgettable.
“Is…did you… Why did you buy a real diamond for a fake wedding?”
“I didn’t buy it,” he said quietly. “It was given to me. By my mother.”
I blinked. “Your mom? Really? Geeze, she wants you to get married. Is this, like, an Italian thing?”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly rougher and more distant. “It’s like a love thing.”
The word love made my heart stutter. Too much. Too soon. Too real.
“When my dad died in combat, they found this in his pocket. One of his friends—someone who knew how much he loved my mom—said he was planning to propose when he came home,” Nick said, swallowing hard. His throat bobbed, his jaw tight. “But he never got that chance.”
My hand rose instinctively to my mouth. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. So am I. If he’d married her sooner, she wouldn’t have struggled the way she did. She raised two kids alone in a country that didn’t give a damn about her loss.”
“Did she know he was going to propose?”
“She suspected. But I think he didn’t want to propose and then leave. He wanted to do it right.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.
“Because it’s the same reason I’ve never proposed to anyone. Never even come close.”
The words struck somewhere deep, unguarded.
I wanted them to mean something. I wanted to mean something.
He looked at me then, and there was something broken in his expression, something barely held together.
“It’s why my mom told me—never hesitate when you find the one.
Marriage should be for love, not convenience. ”
And then, just like that, the moment shattered.
“So even though this goes against my beliefs,” he said, stepping back toward the door, “the show must go on.” He turned, and the echo of his words cut deeper than I expected.
That tiny glimmer of hope I’d let flicker inside me?
Gone. Snuffed out. Crushed beneath the weight of everything this wasn’t.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, steeled myself, and followed him. “Let the show begin,” I whispered, as the hotel door clicked shut behind us.
I wanted to laugh. I needed to laugh—because the man dressed like Elvis in front of us was too much.
But my nerves had clawed their way into my throat, strangling the sound before it could escape.
The scent of old onions and greasy meat wafted off him, and my stomach twisted, dangerously close to revolt.
My palms were slick with sweat as he began reading the vows.
My fingers were locked with Nick’s, and his touch felt too warm, too steady for the storm unraveling inside me.
You can do this. You can do this.
I kept repeating it like a lifeline, but the rising heat under my skin betrayed me. Why the hell hadn’t we practiced the kiss? One kiss. One stupid kiss. All great actors prepare, right? How could I fake this if that kiss was our first real one?
No, it’s not real. It’s just a kiss. Just make it look real. Pretend. Just pretend. You’ve been pretending your whole life, Melanie. One more time won’t kill you.
A loud buzzing sound broke through the noise in my head.
I flicked my gaze sideways without moving, spotting the witness the chapel provided—dead asleep, snoring like it was his full-time job.
His complete disinterest in our sham wedding settled something deep in my chest. My breath eased, ever so slightly.
“Melanie,” the priest said, dragging me back into the moment. “Will you turn to Nick and cite your vows, repeating after me?”
I nodded, lifting my chin, forcing my lips into the kind of smile actresses used in movies—the ones that started in the eyes. That was the trick, right? Make the eyes believe it. I lingered there, staring into Nick’s emerald green eyes, letting myself fall into the illusion. Just for a second.
And God help me—it almost felt real.
“I, Melanie, take you, Nick, to be my husband…” The words spilled out, each one pushing me deeper into dangerous territory.
I could see him watching me, expression unreadable, the corners of his mouth tilted in that smile that could either be part of the show or something more.
Was he laughing at me on the inside? Or did it feel real to him, too?
“Now, I pronounce you husband and wife,” Elvis announced with flair.
We turned to him, then back to each other.
Nick let go of my hands slowly, like he didn’t want to, and slipped one to the small of my back.
My skin burned under his touch. His other hand cradled my cheek with such deliberate gentleness that I forgot to breathe.
The kiss came slowly, like gravity had decided for us, and when our lips finally met, there was nothing fake about the heat curling low in my belly.
His mouth was soft at first, teasing, but when I leaned in, when our tongues brushed, I felt him deepen it.
He devoured slowly, deliberately. I could barely stop the shiver that rolled down my spine when he finally let go.
I was empty without his touch, like someone had ripped out a piece of me and left the hole gaping.
“That’ll make for some great photos,” Elvis said, but it felt like background noise.
Nick grabbed my hand, and we turned, walking down the aisle to Fools Rush In, the song practically mocking me. The photographer flashed her camera, her gum snapping between chews like a drumbeat to my chaotic thoughts.
“Put your leg right there, hun,” she directed. “You’ve got great legs—show ‘em off.”
Her accent was either faked or a genre of its own. I didn’t care.
Nick’s hand was firm on my waist, anchoring me as we posed. I tried not to feel anything. I tried not to want anything. But then he tilted my chin toward him and kissed me again, slower this time, sweeter. I felt my ribcage stretch around my lungs as my heart beat against it like a war drum.
He pulled away just enough to look into my eyes, and I nearly forgot how to exist.
“That’s it, show me the love,” the photographer said.
God, he was dangerous. That tousled black hair, that golden-olive skin that made his green eyes practically glow, that smile—his smile—it didn’t feel like a trick.
It felt like a secret only I got to keep.
A smile that didn’t scare me. One that whispered safety and sincerity.
And maybe even something like… affection.
The photographer packed up. “I’ll get these photos to you in a day or two,” she said, then turned and winked, “Congratulations. Y’all are gonna make beautiful babies.”
The laughter I’d been choking on finally burst free as soon as she disappeared. I doubled over, clutching my stomach.
Nick looked over at me, amused. “Is that funny?”
I could barely get words out. “Yeah, I mean—this whole thing,” I said, twirling in a circle. “I can’t believe people actually get married here.”
His jaw tensed. “What? Because it’s not some hundred-thousand-dollar gala your parents paid for, it’s a joke of a wedding?”
I flinched. The softness between us vanished.
“No,” I said, my voice quieter. “Not the money. The situation. It’s just… so damn cheesy. If I were getting married for real, I’d want my mom here. I’d want her to celebrate with me. Wouldn’t you?”
“If it were real, yeah. That’s why we’ve gotta do all we can to make it look real.”
He pulled out his phone. “Speaking of moms, I should probably call mine—because if this were real, that’s the first thing I’d do. You should call yours, too. Now that we’re officially hitched, we’ve gotta sell this thing like it’s the real deal.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and cursed myself for opening my mouth. “Fine,” I muttered, pulling out my phone.
As I walked off, I heard him speaking rapid Italian to his mom.
The sound made my heart squeeze. I called my mom, anxiety crawling up my throat.
When she didn’t answer, I exhaled in relief, then hung up before I could leave a message.
When I turned around, Nick was still talking, so I brought the phone to my ear and faked it—imagining what it would feel like to tell my mom I married the love of my life.
Not the current version of her, but the one who used to care. The one who chose me.
He hung up, and I followed suit.
“So, how’d it go?” he asked, casually, but his eyes studied me.
“Good,” I said too fast.
He raised an eyebrow, that maddeningly sexy smirk pulling at his lips. “Really?”
I swallowed. “Yup. She was shocked, but busy. I told her I’d fill her in later.” Lies, all of it, but they rolled off my tongue too easily.
“That’s good. My mom wants to murder me. She said we’d better throw a proper celebration when we’re back. No son of hers sneaks off and marries without her and my sister there.”
I laughed softly. “Tell me again you’re not a mama’s boy?”
He gave me a look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Most women want a man who knows how to treat a woman.”
“Unless she’s marrying him. Then it’s a red flag if the umbilical cord’s still attached.”
“I’m not a mama’s boy. I’m just not a dick. There’s a difference.”
“Just calling it how I see it.”
He pulled out a cigarette, and I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? You’re smoking right now?”
“Yeah. You’re already stressing me out—and we just got married.”
“Let’s not forget—this was your idea. If you think we can’t pull it off, we can rip up the license now.”
He exhaled smoke, unfazed. “Little late for that.”
“Let’s get you something to eat,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I need a drink, and you need food. Or did you forget you have diabetes? Part of why we’re doing this, remember?”
My stomach clenched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re so selfish, you don’t care if you drop dead and leave your husband here all alone.”
“News flash—you’re not my husband. And we all die eventually. Also? Pretty bold giving a health lecture while smoking a cigarette.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ve been married twenty minutes and already fighting.”
“Just trying to make this feel authentic,” I said, spinning on my heel and tossing my bouquet over my shoulder.
When I glanced back, he caught it effortlessly, wearing that smug, wicked grin.
“Wipe that look off your face,” I said. “You’re not getting lucky tonight.”