Chapter 3
Harry
The church feels colder when I step through the doors into the nave.
The stained glass windows cast fractured, colorful light over the pews and the litany of guests I barely recognize, blue and crimson and gold bleeding onto faces of the press and those I’d barely call friends.
Everything smells like wax and roses and ancient stone, and the air itself feels volatile enough that one wrong inhale could make everything shatter.
I ignore the gasps from the gallery as I walk the aisle alone.
My footsteps echo louder than I feel like they should.
Heads turn in my peripheral, aisle after aisle.
Whispers and stares hit me from all angles.
These people know who I am.
And they know exactly who I am not.
I keep my chin high, my shoulders squared, not giving them the satisfaction of hesitation or concern. But inside, pieces of me are unraveling thread by thread.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be — not for her, not for me.
Not again, at least.
The last time I did this, I believed in all of it, believed in her.
Geraldine. I didn’t know what grief would taste like when it’s the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with.
I didn't know how the resulting silence could stretch and morph into something hollow and unending. I certainly didn’t think I’d ever stand at another altar.
Especially not with my son’s intended bride.
There have been other women through the years, of course, but never to the extent of anything serious, anything remotely close to this.
But the music starts, and I bite my tongue, unwilling to stop the chaos.
Heads turn, and Elena appears.
Her arm is looped through Ralph’s like a woman walking toward her execution willingly.
She has no bridesmaids, no flower girls, not even her sister — no one but her father, marching her down the aisle as if we’re about to sign the treaty to end a war instead of combining our finances.
She’s breathtaking.
That’s the worst part.
She looks like something out of a dream I have no right to have.
The dress clings to her body in ways I wish I could stop noticing, hugging her wide hips, her full breasts, the swell of her rear.
The closer she gets, the more I see it, though — the way her mouth trembles, the tightness in her jaw, the uneven swelling of her chest on each inhale. She’s beautiful, but the context is tragic.
I hate myself for the heat she stirs low in my spine.
She’s not mine. She wasn’t ever meant to be mine.
And even now, walking toward me, she’s still not.
She is a deal being brokered, a name being preserved, a girl doing what she has to while looking fucking beautiful doing it, even while seeming uncomfortable with not just the situation, but the dress itself.
Ralph leads her to the end of the aisle and pauses, his grip tightening on her just enough for me to see it. When he lets go, there’s no affection given to her, no sentiment, like he’s handing over a check or his credit card.
He turns to me, offering a small, clipped nod. “You’re doing the right thing,” he says.
I want to vomit.
But I nod back.
Elena steps into place beside me, her eyes locked wholly on me, ignoring everyone else like I had done. She leans into me just slightly, her voice dropping low enough for only my ears. “Thank you.”
Fuck.
The ceremony begins.
It unfolds in a blur of holy language and practiced rituals.
The priest speaks, and I repeat, though the words come out on instinct rather than actually meaning them.
Elena does as well, her voice steady and clear but soft enough that I doubt many more than just me and the priest hear it.
Mine is hoarse, but loud enough to get the job done for the room.
When the priest asks if I take her to be my wife, I feel like I’m somewhere far back in my mind, watching the scene in front of me play out like a movie. There are no choices here. Only actions I’m not entirely in control of.
“I do,” I say.
She echoes me when asked. “I do.”
And just like that, it’s done.
The priest smiles with practiced warmth as he shuts his book, cutting through the thick, overwhelming silence. “You may now kiss the bride.”
The words hang in the air like a challenge.
I take a single step closer.
She tilts her chin up.
And I know in my bones that she expects something cursory, something quick and polite to seal the contract. Nothing more than a business handshake disguised as intimacy.
But I’ve never been good at restraining myself.
My hand rises.
I cup her jaw.
Her skin is soft and warm.
She inhales sharply when I lean in.
My lips brush against hers for a fleeting second, her exhale warming my mouth.
And then it’s more.
I move forward far too easily, giving her pressure, heat, intent — my lips sliding against hers with too little control.
She gasps, just barely, just enough that I can feel it, and her body sways forward into me like gravity is pulling her.
A sharp jolt of want snakes its way down my spine, spreading out like a wildfire, only igniting further when I deepen it and her tongue slides against mine. She tastes like champagne and something far sweeter, like overripe strawberries, something that makes me want to take more than I should.
The world narrows to the way her breath hitches when my thumb brushes just beneath her ear.
The kiss should have been ceremonial.
Over in an instant to satisfy her father and the crowd.
Instead, it lingers more than a beat too long.
When I finally pull back, I don’t hear the applause or the confused laughter or the questions from the priest beside us — I’m far too zoned in, and from the way her eyes are locked on mine, wide and dark with something that looks a lot like hunger, she’s right there with me.
She felt it too.
Must have.
I step back, offering my arm with the practiced grace of a man who looks as though he’s never lost control of anything in his life, already calculating how on earth I’m going to keep from wanting to do that again.
And I already know I’ll fail.