“What do you say we ditch this party and make our own?” I ask.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
It’s almost laughable, how impossible that once seemed—how bitterly I would have denied it, how fiercely I fought against even the idea. And yet here we are, moving as though the gods themselves choreographed us. His hand steady. My heart steady. Us—steady.
For the first time, there’s no doubt, no shadow, no blade hanging overhead. Just Marcus. Just me. Just this.
Oh, and a getaway car.
38
MARCUS
The second honeymoon.
Same place. Same suite. The same gilded walls and sweeping balcony, the same ocean sighing against the cliffs below.
But this time, it’s different.
This time, it isn’t a cage dressed up in silk and roses.
This time, it isn’t a performance for politics or peace.
This time, it’s us. It’s real because we chose it.
And the air tastes sweeter for it.
Checking in is almost surreal. Handing over papers without duty weighing us down, no council eyes burning holes in our backs. Just names, signatures, the easy kind of formality, and the thrum of anticipation.
We walk through the halls that once felt like a cage, yet tonight it’s different. Those same walls feel like a promise, like they’ve been remade simply because we’ve been remade. Every step is ours, not theirs. Every echo belongs to us.
Dinner is warm. Quiet. Not the silence of stone, but the hush of comfort. The kind of silence where I can hear the hitch of his breath when he laughs, the soft scrape of silver on porcelain, the brush of his knee against mine under the table. We trade stolenglances over the rims of wineglasses, laughter bubbling up so easily it almost startles me. No masks. No games. No pretense. And for the first time, I realize I belong. To want, without guilt gnawing at the edges.
Back at the hotel, Esmerelda excuses herself with a sly smile, eyes glinting like she’s keeping a secret just for me.
“I’ll be a few minutes,” she says, her voice low and playful.
That smile nearly brings me to my knees. I watch her disappear through the bedroom door, the sway of her hips deliberate, the faint echo of her laughter lingering in the hall. The sound curls through me, teasing, pulling.
I should sit. I should breathe. Instead, I stand rooted, every nerve alive with anticipation, every muscle tight with the knowledge that whatever she’s planning, it isn’t survival this time. It’s want. Pure, unashamed want. And it’s mine.
I wander into the master bedroom, a room I’d avoided like poison during our first honeymoon. Then, it had felt wrong. Hollow. Like stepping into a stage set for a play I wanted no part in.
But now… now, it feels different.
I breathe deep. The air holds the faint bite of polished wood and crisp linen, but beneath it lingers something sweeter, her perfume, clinging to the air, sinking into the very grain of the room. It hits me like a fist to the chest, sharp and aching.
This life. This love. This impossible second chance.
It’s more than I ever thought I’d have, more than I ever believed I deserved. And at times it terrifies me, because I know I’ll burn the world down before I let it slip away.
The bathroom door opens.
Esmerelda steps inside, and all I can do is stare. The world stops at the threshold with her.
She’s draped in lace and silk, bridal white against the warm glow of her golden skin. The fabric clings, teases, bares justenough to make my vision blur at the edges. Her cheeks are flushed, with something fiercer, bolder than nerves. A dare wrapped in vulnerability.
My heart stutters hard enough to hurt. My throat goes dry, useless. For all the blood and fire we’ve walked through, it’s this that undoes me: this woman, my wife, standing there like a vow made real.
