Arlo
Ophelia looks like a queen.
The dress, the heels, everything she’s wearing tonight is exactly what I imagined when I planned this.
The white satin clings to her just enough to make my chest tighten, the hem brushing her thighs every time she moves. Those Louboutins I picked fit her perfectly, just like I knew they would.
But honestly, she could wear anything and still look like the most beautiful thing that’s ever walked this earth.
I chose this colour on purpose. Ever since that day at her father’s estate, when she wore the white dress and I slid the first ring onto her finger, it’s been burned into my mind.
I wanted to see it again. Needed to. Because whenever I see her in that shade, I catch a glimpse of the day she’ll walk toward me in a wedding gown.
I take her hand and guide her toward the table. Faint music drifts through the restaurant. I pull out her chair, she sits gracefully, and I ease it in, my hand brushing her shoulder before I take my seat across from her.
Our eyes meet briefly with the waitress who appears at my side. I give a small nod, and she disappears to bring the first course.
I reach across the table and take Ophelia’s hand again, unable to stop myself. My thumb traces along her knuckles, over the cool metal of the two rings that now rest there.
Fuck, if I could marry her tonight, I would. Without guests or ceremony, just her and me, and the rest of the world fading out.
“Do you want a big wedding?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
She looks up, lips curving. “Not big as in too many people I barely know,” she says, her tone light. “But I do want a proper one. A dress I’ll only wear once. A veil. Maybe somewhere by the sea in Italy. And definitely a ridiculous cake and a first dance.”
Her eyes narrow, teasing. “So don’t get any ideas, Arlo.”
I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “You know me too fucking well. If it were up to me, I’d have an officiant here tonight and sign the damn papers that make you mine for good.”
She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “You’re impossible.”
The waitress returns, pouring champagne into two tall glasses before slipping away again.
Ophelia glances down at her hand, twisting it slightly in the light. “Do you expect me to wear both of them?” she asks, teasing but curious.
“Yes,” I answer immediately.
Her brows lift, waiting.
I lean back slightly, my voice low. “The first ring,” I say, “was a promise, one I broke, and one I spent every day since trying to earn back. The second…” I look directly at her. “The second is proof that I did.”
She stares at me, lips parting slightly, and then looks down at her fingers again. “They fit so well together,” she murmurs, “like they were made to be worn as one.”
I smirk. “They were. That was my plan all along.”
Her eyes widen, but before either of us can say anything, the waitress arrives with our food.
I glance at her plate. “Where’s your glucose monitor?” I mutter.
“In my clutch,” she says with a faint smile, already reaching for it.
I watch as she discreetly checks her glucose level. Once she confirms it’s safe to eat, she reaches for her fork.
I nod, satisfied.
We start eating. For a while, the silence between us is easy.
“The view is…” she pauses, glancing out through the glass, “…exquisite.”
I don’t answer. My eyes aren’t on the skyline. They’re on her.
“Indeed,” I say.
After dessert, I catch her eye. “Let’s go for a walk around the city.”
She nods.
I stand and help her up, sliding her chair back before reaching for her coat. I drape it over her shoulders. Then, I take her hand in mine.
The elevator ride down is quiet. When we step out into the Paris air, the city hums around us. We walk along the path beneath the Eiffel Tower, the lights from above scattering across the pavement.
I glance at her shoes, then at her, then back at the shoes.
Before she can protest, I bend down, hook an arm under her knees, and lift her bridal style against my chest.
She lets out a gasp, her hands flying to my neck. “Arlo, put me down!”
“Not a chance.”
“Arlo!” she laughs.
I ignore her protest and keep walking.
A few streets later, I step inside a building. The man behind the desk looks up, first at me, then at the woman in my arms.
“Set me down,” she grits out under her breath.
I meet the man’s eyes, narrowing mine for a beat before finally lowering Ophelia to her feet.
She steadies herself, shooting me a glare without any real heat.
I grin and brush a stray strand of hair from her face.
The man clears his throat. “Monsieur Vass.”
I nod once. “Evening.”
“We’re ready when you are,” he says.
“Lead the way.”
He moves toward a hallway lined with framed sketches, faint music humming through hidden speakers.
Ophelia’s heels click beside me. “Why are we here?” she asks warily. “If you’re planning what I think you’re planning, I’m telling you now, the answer is no.”
I smirk, saying nothing. Her suspicion only deepens.
The man stops at a door at the end of the hall and opens it for us. “You can wait in here. He’ll be with you shortly.”
We step inside. The air carries the scent of antiseptic and ink. There’s a chair in the centre of the room, a tray of tools beside it.
I gesture toward one of the chairs. “Sit.”
She gives me a look that says I’ve lost my mind, but she sits. I take the main chair.
The door opens again, and a tall man with dark hair, tattooed arms and a calm expression on his face steps in.
“Good evening,” he says in French accented English. “You’re Arlo Vass, yes?”
“That’s right.”
He checks the notes on his tablet, then looks up. “You want the piece on your ring finger, yes?”
Ophelia’s brows lift. “Your ring finger?” she repeats.
I smirk. “Got that, didn’t you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop being a smartarse.”
The tattooist gestures to me. “Give me your hand, please.”
I rest it on the small table, palm down. He cleans the skin, marks the spot, then adjusts the machine. The faint buzz fills the room.
When the needle touches my skin, I barely feel it.
When he’s finished, he wipes the area carefully, applies a thin layer of cream, and wraps it.
“Keep it clean,” he says. “No soaking for a few days, and use the ointment twice daily.”
I nod. “Got it.”
He leaves us to it.
At reception, I take out my card and pay, holding Ophelia’s hand in mine.
The Paris air is colder now. She presses closer instinctively, and I draw her against my chest, my arm firm around her shoulders.
“I can’t believe you actually did that,” she says softly. “You tattooed my name on your ring finger.”
“Until we’re officially married,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw, “and you put that wedding ring on my hand yourself, people should know I’m yours.”
She looks up at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.
I lower my mouth to her ear, my voice low against her skin. “I don’t need a ring to remind me who I belong to, Ophelia. But now the world will know it too.”
She exhales slowly, her lashes lowering.
I press a kiss to her temple and pull her closer. “This isn’t just ink, ma lune,” I say quietly. “It’s a promise. One that doesn’t fade.”