The answer slams into me, hard and clear.
I don’t even need to think.
I down the last of my whiskey.
Who am I? That’s easy.
I am hers.
I stop in the connecting bathroom first, stripping off my clothes and stepping under the steaming spray.
The shower is quick—just enough to clear the salt and sweat and shame from my skin.
When I step into the suite wearing only silk boxers, I expect her to be asleep.
She’s not.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in a pale pink slip, the kind that clings and hints and makes a man forget his own name.
My body reacts instantly, hard and hungry, but I push it down.
Because my bride—my wife—is crying. Sobbing softly.
And the sight guts me.
Her shoulders tremble.
Her fingers twist in the sheets.
Her face is turned down, but her red-rimmed eyes glisten in the dim light.
“Hey,” I say gently, crossing the room and sinking down beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She flinches like she didn’t even hear me come in, like she thought she was alone.
She wipes her cheeks quickly.
“Sorry. This must seem silly. I—I just,” she stops.
“Cece, we both know you’re not the silly type. Now, talk to me,” I whisper.
She takes a shaky breath.
“I know this isn’t a real wedding, but still. It’s not how I thought it would happen.”
Fuck.
I’m a total piece of shit.
I left her alone down here, spiraling, while I was upstairs brooding like a coward. I should’ve been with her.
Should’ve held her. Kissed her. Given her a reason to smile.
Not this.
She turns her face to me again, lashes damp and voice so soft it nearly breaks me.
“I—I was engaged before, you know.”
