I tilt her chin up, ensuring she meets my gaze. “Hey. No more of this talk. We’re here because we chose to fight for us. That’s all that matters now.”
The music fades, but I hold her for one moment longer, committing this feeling to memory. With reluctance, I lead Meesha to our seats at the head table, our fingers remaining intertwined.
Pierre rises for his speech, surprising everyone with his emotional depth as he recounts our childhood in Quebec. His words paint vivid pictures of snowy adventures and teenage mischief before concluding with the observation that he’s never seen me as happy as I am with Meesha. His sincerity brings unexpected moisture to my eyes.
When Jessa takes the microphone next, her stories elicit both laughter and tears from our guests. Her affection for both of us shines through every word.
After the speeches comes the cake-cutting ceremony. Meesha’s eyes sparkle mischievously as she cuts a small piece of our three-tiered masterpiece, and I immediately recognize the playful threat in her expression.
“Don’t even think about it, ma belle,” I warn with a laugh, eyeing the cake in her hand.
She grins, considering my fate before relenting. With gentleness, she feeds me the cake instead of smashing it in my face as I half-expected. I return the favor with equal care, stealing a quick kiss that tastes of chocolate and vanilla frosting.
“Bouquet toss!” the DJ announces, shifting the celebration to its next tradition.
Meesha stands confidently on a chair, surveying the crowd of single women gathered on the dance floor. With a laugh that carries across the garden, she turns her back and tosses the arrangement of hibiscus and roses over her shoulder. Jasmine catches it, looking momentarily surprised before dropping it as if it were hot coal, much to everyone’s amusement.
“Your turn, babe,” Meesha says with a teasing smile, gesturing to the garter around her thigh.
I kneel before her with theatrical gallantry, sliding my hands beneath the folds of her dress as our guests cheer and whistle. When I emerge triumphant with the lace band, I tuck it discreetly into my pocket and retrieve a brand new one that I’d hidden earlier.
With deliberate aim, I send it flying directly at Kamal, who steps nimbly aside. Antonio, engrossed in conversation with Meesha’s father, finds himself unexpectedly decorated when the garter lands squarely on his head.
“Câlisse, I did not see that coming,” I laugh as Antonio fixes me with a glare from across the room.
As the formalities conclude and the dancing begins in earnest, I lean close to Meesha, my lips brushing her ear. “I have a surprise for you.”
Her eyes light up with curiosity as I take her hand, leading her away from the celebrating crowd toward the waiting limo.
“I spoke to the prosecutor yesterday,” I say, watching her profile in the passing streetlights. “Dennis accepted a twenty-year plea deal.”
Meesha turns to me, relief washing across her features. “Really? Twenty years for nearly killing us?”
I squeeze her hand. “That’s not all. They found evidence connecting him to an unsolved murder in Nevada. Once heserves his time here, he’ll be transferred there to face those charges.”
“So he’s really gone.” Her voice is almost disbelieving. “For good.”
“For good,” I confirm, lifting her hand to my lips.
When we pull up to the driveway of our house, Meesha turns to me with a questioning smile. “What are we doing here?”
“Rewriting the memories of our house.”
As we reach the porch, I pause, turning to her with a grin. “Wait. We need to do this properly.” Before she can respond, I sweep her into my arms, cradling her against my chest as she laughs in surprise.
“Connor!” She wraps her arms around my neck.
“Traditional, ma belle,” I explain, carrying her across the threshold of our home. “This is our first time entering as husband and wife.”
Her eyes shine as I set her down carefully in our foyer. “I love you,” she whispers, rising on tiptoes to press a soft kiss to my lips.
Taking her hand once more, we climb the staircase to the second floor. At our bedroom door, I pause, watching the play of emotions across her face—curiosity, anticipation, and the faintest trace of remembered fear.
Opening our bedroom door reveals a space transformed by dozens of battery-operated candles, while rose petals form a crimson path to our bed. The bullet hole has been repaired, the walls freshly painted in the soft blue-gray we originally chose together.
“When did you do all this?” She steps into the room.
“The past five days.” I close the door behind us, my fingers already working at the buttons of my jacket. “I wanted our first night as husband and wife to be special.”
