About what comes next.
About custody and chaos and whatever the hell this marriage actually means outside of panic and paperwork.
But right now?
Nathan Thorn—international rockstar, living legend, breaker of my teenage heart—is wining and dining me like I’m the only woman alive.
And I’ve never had such a good time.
We’re at the exclusive rooftop restaurant inside the hotel—fancy tablecloths, violin trio in the corner, glittering skyline stretching out like a bowl of stars.
The kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn’t be there.
I spot A-listers.
Actors.
Influencers.
Popstars.
Possible mob affiliated billionaires.
People whose faces I’ve only ever seen filtered on magazine covers.
And yet here I am, in my skintight clearance rack ivory dress, being seated as if I belong.
Nathan looks uncomfortable at first—jaw tight, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning the room like he’s tracking threats—but I don’t miss the way people glance at us as we walk in.
Some recognize him instantly.
Some whisper behind their champagne glasses.
Some pretend to take selfies but are absolutely aiming their phones at us.
And suddenly—thereit is.
That creeping, choking doubt I thought I buried years ago, clawing its way up my throat.
I clear my throat lightly.“Nate, really, if you want, we can just order room service,” I say quietly.“I’m fine, really.We don’t have to do all this.”
He looks at me like I’ve suggested we eat dinner in a parking lot Dumpster.
“What?No way.”
Then he leans in, voice low, warm, and dangerous—the kind of tone that hits every nerve ending I have and turns my bones into chocolate pudding.
“You deserve a special dinner on your wedding night, Ad.”
My breath catches.
But then his eyes darken, dragging down my body like he can’t help himself.
And my confidence?
Yeah, it shatters like sugar glass.
“I appreciate that, but,” I whisper and swallow hard.“I don’t want to ruin your reputation or embarrass you.”
