The way he said it cracked something open inside me. That name belonged to him now. Only him.
Aurélie was mine. Dubois was my legacy. But Auri? That was his. That was love.
And he’d started using it more in front of the others, even Colette. Like he wasn’t afraid to show where the softness lived inside him when it came to me. Like he’d built a home out of my name and was finally ready to let the world see it.
“Now, later, always,” I echoed. My eyes burned in the good way. “After we say yes, I want to go home. Not the house. Home. You.Us.”
“I’m bringing you there in about,” he paused, “seven minutes.”
Ivy’s voice piped up from Callum’s side of the terrace. “Five.”
Callm and I laughed.
“I have to know,” he murmured, practical to the end. “Are you wearing white?”
My free hand smoothed over my dress, and for a moment, I contemplated denying him. Teasing him, keeping the mystery until the very last second. But he gave me this. Gave me today.Gave me his whole life and heart and future without asking for anything in return.
It would be my last act of obedience before we were wed, and I wanted to be his in every way that mattered. Not diminished, not owned. Just his. His partner. His equal. His always.
Because submission, for me, was never about weakness. It wasn’t a power imbalance. It was trust. Worship. A choice made again and again. And loving him this way was the freest I had ever felt.
“I’m wearing white,” I told him. “Like I always said I would.” I paused, letting the moment breathe, then added, “I’m barefoot. There’s a veil. A borrowed hairpiece with olive leaves tucked into the comb.”
“Well, I have the handfasting ribbon under the cuff,” he murmured, voice rough with awe. “Colette insisted on putting an olive sprig in the boutonnière. And, of course, your ring in my pocket.” He hesitated. “My hands are steady because I know it’s you.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, my chest aching. This is what it meant to love someone so hard it hurt. “Check your pocket again,” I teased, just to lighten the moment.
He laughed that boyish, hearty laugh that melted my panties right off, and I pictured his dimple appearing. “Checked thrice, love.”
“Well, I have yours tied to my bouquet, right by my vows,” I whispered.
A pause stretched sweet between us.
“You’re a hopeless romantic, Dubois.”
Another pause, a beat suspended in forever.
“I just realized,” he added, voice thick with emotion, his accent heavier than normal. “That’s the last time I’ll call you that.”
Dubois.
I was trading last names. Leaving my family name behind to start something new. But it’s how we began—Fraser versus Dubois. The champion against the rookie. A real life rivals-to-lovers story. The one that changed both of our lives.
And I loved it for that.
Somewhere beyond the terrace, a guitar tested a few tender chords. Lucy. The melody floated on the breeze like a benediction.
And suddenly, my lungs emptied.
My fingers squeezed his harder as panic broke through my ribs. “Cal—baby?—”
He tugged my hand gently, but with purpose, pulling me until the side of my arm and shoulder brushed the corner of the wall. That brief contact did something, reoriented me. His body wasright there. His voice was closer than before. His scent wrapped around me, lush bergamot, fresh linen, and that citrus-sage body wash I huffed like an addict. It helped. Some.
“Behave,” he murmured, teasing and tender. “And don’t even think about peeking.”
I exhaled a shaky laugh. “No promises.”
But I was spiraling. I needed air. I needed him. And thankfully, he didn’t let go.
