2. Alexis
Alexis
Gabriel Thorne crosses the beach slowly, as if he’s being dragged forward with every step. There’s a scowl on his face, accentuating the hard line of his jaw. His brow is furrowed and his steely gray eyes narrowed as he meets my gaze.
There’s something about him that’s intimidating, even from a distance.
It’s not just his height or the intensity of his expression.
It’s the way he carries himself. Everything about his demeanor, from the way he holds his shoulders to the sharpness of his gaze, suggests a man who’s been through hell and emerged hardened.
And… yeah, that scares the shit out of me.
He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen—I’ve thought that from the moment I laid eyes on him—but he’s untouchable. Distant. We’ve spoken a few times, and each time, it felt like he was removed from our conversation, responding by rote.
Nerves flood me, my momentary good spirits gone. I never know what to say to Gabriel. I never know how to breach the distance he puts up, that invisible wall he seems to have constructed around himself.
I want to look away, before he can see the flicker of fear in my eyes. But I can’t. I feel frozen, my gaze locked on his.
To my relief, his mother steps forward, drawing his attention. He breaks eye contact with me, and I let out a breath, as though I’ve suddenly been released from whatever hold he had on me.
Camille approaches her son, and he stops some distance away from the photographer’s setup. He speaks to his mother in a low, urgent tone. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Camille’s lips press thin.
“Not quite sure we’re ready,” says my own mother, off to my right. I glance at her with a frown. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible, and if she starts trying to drag her feet, it’ll be harder than it needs to be.
She’s not talking to me. She’s talking to one of the photographer’s assistants, who did my makeup a few minutes ago. I resist the urge to heave a sigh, knowing what’s coming next.
“I think she could use more of a touch-up,” my mother says, giving me an appraising look—as if I’m not even here. “More foundation. A darker shadow. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” the assistant says uncomfortably. “We generally try to go for a natural look in engagement photos.”
My mother hums in disapproval. “This isn’t about looking ‘natural’—it’s about her looking her best.”
“She looks great,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not sure adding more makeup would—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, before my mother can snap back at him. “A little bit more is fine.”
I know better than to push against my mother’s wishes.
She has a way of making her opinions feel like undeniable truths, and I don’t want to spark a debate here, especially not in front of Gabriel.
I can feel his gaze on me, and the last thing I need is a scene that makes this already awkward situation worse.
Besides, I know that this is hard on my parents too, in a different way than it’s hard on me. It was never supposed to be me in this position. I was never supposed to be the one carrying the family’s legacy on my shoulders. That was always going to be Noelle, my older sister.
Noelle passed away when I was ten years old.
She was only fourteen, but already, she had a presence that filled the room.
Given ten more years to mature, she would’ve stepped into this role gracefully, easily.
My sister’s leukemia derailed my parents’ plans, and now I’m the one who has to take on the Beaumont family mantle and the arranged marriage.
Marrying well is an absolute must in our circles, for at least one child in the family. To marry someone else of means is to preserve the family’s wealth, expand our prospects for the future. In these cases, marriage often isn’t about love. It’s about finances. Assets. Business.
Not exactly the easiest thing to look forward to.
Gabriel’s mother leads him over to a clothing rack that the photographers have somehow wheeled out onto the beach, and together, they go through several different options for blazers. Well, not together. Camille rifles through the clothes, and Gabriel stares at the sand, glowering.
One of the photographer’s assistants approaches me. “Would you like something to drink, miss?”
I’m about to refuse, but today is already so hellish. I might as well have something nice to soothe my nerves. “Do you have herbal iced tea?” I ask politely.
She smiles. “We have everything. Anything else I can get you?”
“A dash of vanilla in it would be lovely,” I say gratefully. That’s my favorite drink—herbal tea with vanilla. With any luck, it’ll soothe my nerves.
The assistant turns to face Gabriel and his mother. “And for either of you?”
“A tonic water for me,” Camille says. “Gabriel?”
He doesn’t respond, merely shakes his head. He stares at me, his steely gaze fixed.
This time, I manage to look away, to pull my focus from his face. My heart is in my throat, though, my pulse racing. This is going to be a difficult three years if I can’t even look him in the eye.
While Gabriel gets changed and touched up by the stylists, I sip on the cold herbal tea. The faint sweetness lingers on my tongue, but it does little to ease the tension winding through my body. I watch the stylists fuss over Gabriel as he stands still, his expression unreadable.
I try to distract myself by focusing on the scenery, the rhythmic roll of the ocean and the crash of waves against the shore. But every time I glance back, I find myself hyper-aware of his every move, his quiet, commanding presence.
Finally, the photographer claps his hands to draw our attention. “Okay! Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? We’re going to do some photos by our archway, then head over to the cliffs to get some natural shots.”
Swallowing, I move obediently toward the archway. The sand shifts beneath my feet with each step, making me feel unsteady. As I approach, the photographer gestures for Gabriel to join me.
And suddenly, I find myself face-to-face with him, pressed closer than we’ve ever been before.
“Hello,” he says stiffly.
“Hi,” I respond. I’m not sure what else to say, but the silence that hangs between us is so tense, so unnatural, that I feel the need to fill it.
I clear my throat, doing my best to keep my voice clear and cool, trying to hide the embarrassing stutter that I’ve struggled with since I was a child.
“Th-thanks for doing this. You probably had better things to do with your d-day than a photoshoot.”
His head tips to one side slightly, his lips pursed. It’s a strange expression, one I can’t interpret. “Oh. I’m sure you had better things to do than this.”
I open my mouth, then close it again, like a fish out of water. Before I can come up with a reply, the photographer’s hands are on my arms.
“Move closer together,” he says, pushing me toward Gabriel. “That’s it. Pretend you like each other.”
He thinks it’s a joke, but I don’t. Nothing about this situation is funny. I oblige, taking a step toward Gabriel, who goes as still as a startled animal.
“Could you touch her?” the photographer asks him. “Get some sort of contact for this first photo?”
Gabriel glances down at me, concern evident on his face. “Is it okay if I…”
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. We’re getting married, for fuck’s sake, and he’s still asking permission to touch me. I swallow hard, then nod.
He wraps an arm around my waist, one of his large hands settling at the small of my back. As he does so, a wave of his scent washes over me. He smells like smoky cedar, sandalwood, and a hint of something sharp and clean—citrus, I think.
Different from any other man I’ve been this close to, for sure. Both his touch and his scent are unexpected, surprisingly soft and lingering, wrapping around me in a way that feels… almost intimate. My breath catches for a moment, and I fight the urge to lean in, drawn to the warmth of him.
Gabriel’s touch is warm, but there’s a tension there, a restraint in the way his hand rests on my back.
His grip is firm, secure, but it feels like he’s holding back, unsure of where the line is drawn.
The contrast between his imposing presence and this careful touch is almost disarming.
His thumb brushes against my spine, so subtly that I wonder if he even realizes he’s done it.
The snap-snap of the camera jolts me out of my trance.
“Perfect,” the photographer says. “Just like that. Keep looking at each other.”
Snap-snap. I gaze up at him. He’s so tall, at least a foot taller than me. I stopped growing at five-foot-two. He towers over me, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that seems to envelop us both.
Snap-snap.
“Okay, let’s get another pose,” the photographer directs, checking his camera screen without looking up at us. “How about this—Gabriel, why don’t you take her hand and walk toward the camera? Nice and natural, like you’re heading somewhere together.”
Gabriel’s hand slides from my waist, and for a moment, the absence of his warmth makes me feel oddly exposed. Then he reaches down, his fingers brushing against mine before wrapping around my hand. His grip is firm, yet somehow careful, like he’s afraid of holding too tightly.
We start toward the photographer. The shutter clicks with a light snap-snap, snap-snap as he takes a couple of pictures. The photographer glances down at his camera’s screen again, then frowns. He shakes his head, gesturing for us to move back toward the archway.
“No, no. Go again. And this time, actually look at her.”
I dare a glance up at Gabriel, catching the edges of his profile in the sunlight. His jaw is set, his expression focused. Sure enough, he’s not looking at me—he’s looking ahead, as though forcing himself to stay detached.
“Come on, Mr. Thorne,” the photographer says, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. “Look at her, please. As though she’s the most important person in the world.”
Gabriel breathes in deeply through his nose, his chest rising before his gaze slowly drops to meet mine. His gray eyes soften, just barely, as if he’s making a conscious effort to follow the photographer’s instructions.
“There we go. Hold that. And walk toward me… beautiful.” Snap-snap, snap-snap. “Give me more.”
Gabriel reaches down, his fingers coming to rest on the side of my face, cupping my jaw. He tilts my face up toward his.
“Oh, hell yes. That’s what I’m talking about!” The photographer sounds excited now, and the snap of the camera’s shutter becomes almost constant.
We take another step forward together, and I’m so distracted by all of this—by the noise of the camera, by Gabriel’s touch, which feels like it’s electrifying my nerves—that I slip, losing my balance on the sand.
In response, Gabriel’s arm snakes around my waist once more. He tightens his grip, holding me upright.
“I’ve got you,” he says in a low, serious voice.
For a split second, I cling to him, steadying myself. He feels solid, unyielding. A temporary anchor.
I look up at him, and our gazes lock. At this distance, it’s even more impossible to turn away from him. I’m caught up in the intensity of his gaze, the way his gray eyes seem to darken with something I can’t quite decipher. There’s a depth there, a flicker of something beneath the surface.
The photographer is still shouting instructions, but his reedy voice seems to fade into the background, muffled by Gabriel’s closeness.
He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers ghosting across my face.
There’s a softness in his expression that wasn’t there before, and it makes my breath catch in my throat.
“Yes!” The photographer is practically hopping up and down with excitement. “That’s it, that’s looking great! Now kiss her!”
All at once, like sand scattered by the wind, the moment evaporates. Gabriel pulls back, his whole body suddenly stiff.
“That’s enough,” he says—growls, really, his voice low and gruff. The softness is gone, replaced by the steel I’m more accustomed to from him. He steps away, his arm falling from my waist as though it was never there at all.
But it was. I can still feel the warmth of his touch lingering on my cheek, like an imprint that won’t fade. The absence of it leaves me feeling strangely empty, as though something important has been taken away.
I didn’t expect that—that intimacy, that brief connection. It felt so real. There was something there, something more than the careful, cordial distance that always sits between us.
I shake off the dazed feeling, my surroundings coming back into focus.
The photographer is speaking, clearly taken aback by Gabriel’s sharp tone. “Uh, okay,” he mutters, glancing down at his camera. “Let’s move on, then. We’ll head over to the cliffs.”
“Give me a moment,” Gabriel replies. He steps away from me, toward his mother and my parents, who are off to the side. He begins to speak to them in low tones—too quiet for me to hear over the roar of the surf and the chattering of seabirds.
Gabriel stands with his back to me, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the conversation he’s having with our parents. I can’t make out a single word, but from the way Camille occasionally nods and my mother’s lips purse, it’s clear that whatever he’s saying isn’t trivial.
I shift my weight, uncomfortable. Was I imagining that intimacy? Did I somehow overstep, or misread him? A growing knot of uncertainty settles low in my chest.
I shuffle toward them, trying to hear what they’re saying without making it too obvious that I’m eavesdropping.
“—told you from the start that this was a bad idea,” Gabriel mutters to his mother. “We need to call it off now. Before it becomes catastrophic.”
Camille’s response is lost to the wind, swept away by the crashing waves and salty air, but I don’t need to hear her words to understand the gravity of the situation.
Gabriel is trying to convince them to call the whole thing off.
Based on his tone and the tight set of his jaw, I can tell he’s serious, maybe more serious than I’ve ever seen him.
My heart races as the knot of anxiety tightens even further. Call it off?
My suspicions were right. That intimate moment was one-sided at best, entirely in my head. My stomach tightens, and I drop my gaze to the sand, unsure whether to be embarrassed, disappointed… or both.
He doesn’t want me. How could I have failed him already, before we’re even married?