Her ring catches the light—a simple gold band—and it feels too heavy, too meaningful, for something that was supposed to be just a deal.
Applause breaks out the second we turn from the officiant.
Mac’s eyes are glassy, her smile bright and proud as Logan wraps his arm around her shoulders. Clay and Dean both give me a smile and a curt nod—their version of congratulations orpossibly an open invitation to their morally questionable, painfully attractive cult of perfection.
Jesus, those guys. They’re the type you want to hate, but can’t, because they look like they were sculpted by angels and airbrushed. If typos were caused by lust, the entire English language would collapse the second those two walked into a room.
Helping people.
Healing them.
If they ever turned out to be serial killers, the documentary would be calledCatch & Release—a tender story about incest, redemption, and maybe…cannibalism? I don’t know. They’d probably still get a Netflix deal and fan merch.
Enough about those sweet-like-candy motherfuckers.
It’s Chace who breaks the hush first.
“I thought you were gonna bolt or pass out for a minute there!” he grins, clapping a heavy hand against my shoulder. “Gotta be honest, man—I didnothave you down as the first of us to get married. Thought for sure it’d be Sam—marrying his protein shakes and his NutriBullet.”
Sam scoffs. “Best for macros. And Chace, aren’t you the guy who once tried to marry a stripper in Vegas because she had your name tattooed on her thigh?”
“Details,” Chace mutters, waving him off before his attention swings to Seraphina. His grin softens, almost boyish. “I’m Chace,” he says, offering his hand before looking her up and down with an exaggerated shake of his head. “And Mrs. Baker—no disrespect—but you arewaytoo beautiful to be married to this guy.”
Seraphina laughs quietly, cheeks blooming pink as she takes his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Chace.”
“Lovely?” Sam echoes, deep voice warm and teasing as he steps forward. “Wait until you actually get to know him.”
He offers his hand next, and his smile is surprisingly kind. “I’m Sam. Congratulations, both of you.”
Her small hand disappears into his, and she thanks him softly, voice barely above a whisper. There’s a tremor there—nerves.
I should say something. Make a joke. Say a line. Anything.
But my brain’s still somewhere between the echo ofI doand the feel of her hand in mine.
Because just like that, it’s done.
I married her.
I married Seraphina Carmichael.
The courthouse doors burst open into a wall of sound—shouts, clicks, flashes.
Camera shutters pop like gunfire, a full-blown sensory assault. For a second, Seraphina flinches, her hand tightening around mine, and all I can do is pull her closer, one arm wrapping firm around her waist.
“Mrs. Baker! Over here!”
Yeah.That part I definitely forgot to mention.
Somewhere betweenhey, let’s get marriedandwe’ll be fine, I might’ve skipped the part where the press turns into a pack of starved wolves if you don’t hand them a story.
And if youdohand them one—like, say, a mysterious bride fresh out of nowhere—they’ll eat it alive.
“Trey, give us a smile!”
“Who’s the mystery girl?”
The questions hit like bullets.
