Flash. Flash. Flash.
My mother materializes beside the photographer, champagne flute in hand. "Darling, you need to smile with your eyes. You look positively bored."
"I am bored."
"Asher." She takes a delicate sip, her gaze sliding to Grace. "This is your wedding day. At least pretend to be happy about marrying that girl."
Grace stiffens beside me.
"Her name is Grace." My hand tightens possessively on her waist. "And I'm perfectly happy."
The lie tastes strange. Not entirely untrue. I am happy beside her, and that should make me more uneasy than it does.
Mother's laugh tinkles like broken crystal. "Of course you are. Though I must say, the ceremony was rather... intimate. All those flushed cheeks. One might think you'd been doing something scandalous."
I meet her gaze, expression blank. "One might."
She opens her mouth to respond, but the wedding planner swoops in, herding us toward the reception hall. Thank fuck.
The ballroom gleams under chandeliers, each table draped in ivory and gold. Our guests mill about, champagne flowing freely as a string quartet plays something classical and forgettable.
Speeches begin after we're seated at the head table. My father goes first, spinning some bullshit about legacy and family values that makes my jaw clench. My mother follows with stories about my childhood that paint me as the golden child she needed me to be.
Not who I was.
Then Kacey takes the microphone.
"I met Grace our freshman year at NYU." She grins, purple-tipped hair catching the light. "She was this wide-eyed girl from Michigan who thought the subway was 'an adventure' and complained about the pizza being too thin."
Laughter ripples through the crowd. Grace covers her face, groaning.
"But what you need to know about Grace Morgan—Caine now, which is wild—is that she's the most genuine person I've ever met." Kacey's voice softens. "She doesn't pretend. She doesn't perform. What you see is what you get. And that’s a kind, strong, beautiful woman, who I’m endlessly grateful to have as my best friend."
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
"So Asher?" Kacey raises her glass, meeting my gaze. "You better treat her right. Because if you don't, I know people."
The crowd erupts in more applause and laughter. I nod once in acknowledgment and promise.
Then it's our first dance.
Grace moves into my arms like she was made to fit there, hand resting on my shoulder as I guide her across the floor. The photographer circles us, capturing every angle, but all I see is her.
The pearls locked at her throat.
Those hazel eyes watching me, uncertain but trusting.
The slight catch in her breath and her effortless smile when I pull her closer.
"You did well today," I murmur against her ear.
"Did I meet your standards?" she teases, and I’m glad she’s loosened up a bit.
"Exceeded them."
Pink blooms across her cheeks and, fuck, I want to kiss her all over. Want to lay her down on this goddamn dance floor and remind everyone exactly who she belongs to now.
Instead, I settle for spinning her, hand splayed possessively at the small of her back.
