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“Samantha, from the moment I saw you, I knew you were meant to be mine. There will never be another day you face without me by your side. I will protect you, provide for you, and make sure nothing and no one ever comes between us. I vow to cherish you, to keep you safe in my arms, and to build the life you deserve. No matter what it takes. You’re my world now, and I will never let you go.”

Something in his tone felt fervent and absolute. It sounded like love. Like devotion. But for the briefest second, it felt different. More like possession. I pushed the thought aside.

He slipped the wedding band onto my finger. My hands shook so badly that the large diamond caught the light unevenly, sparkling in fractured bursts against my skin. I looked down at it.

This is forever.

The officiant smiled. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Richard cupped my face with both hands and kissed me. For that moment, the grief quieted. I kissed him back, clinging to the warmth and the fragile hope that this was the start of healing.

We signed the papers in a quiet haze. I barely heard the clerk explaining where to sign or what happened next. I followed her instructions, writing my name wherever she pointed until I reached the final line.

Samantha Kincaid.

I stared at it for a moment after I finished.

That was my name now.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kincaid.

Only a few weeks ago, I had been Samantha Whitmore, finishing college and having Sunday lunches with my dad. Now I was married. Everything had changed so quickly that I still hadn’t caught up with my own life.

Richard reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“Mrs. Kincaid.”

I looked at him. Hearing him say it made everything suddenly real. A small smile found its way onto my face.

We stepped out of city hall into the afternoon light, hand in hand. Couples and families crowded the steps around us. Someone nearby popped a bottle of champagne while a little girl ran circles around a woman still wearing her veil. Parents took pictures. People hugged and laughed. Everywhere I looked, someone was celebrating.

I wondered what my dad would have looked like standing there with us. The thought hurt enough that I looked away.

A city hall photographer approached us with a camera and a warm smile. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid. We take photos for couples who get married here. Would you like a few together?”

Richard looked at me. “Absolutely.”

He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me against him. I rested one hand against his chest while the photographer positioned us on the steps.

“Little closer.”

Richard didn’t need to be told twice. I laughed softly when he pulled me tighter, and the camera clicked.

For the next few photographs, I tried to let myself be happy. I smiled up at Richard. He kissed my temple for one and my cheek for another. When the photographer asked us to look at each other, Richard’s eyes stayed fixed on mine with such intensity that I briefly forgot about the camera.

For those few seconds, I let everything else disappear.

The grief was still there. It would be there when we got home and tomorrow morning when I woke up. But standing on those steps with Richard’s arms around me, I allowed myself to feel something besides devastated.

I was married.

I had someone.

I wasn’t alone.

Richard thanked the photographer before guiding me toward the curb, where his sleek black Jaguar waited. He opened the passenger door and helped me inside before walking around the car and sliding behind the wheel.

Richard reached toward the dashboard and slid a cassette into the tape deck.