But when I stand in front of the priest downstairs and see my future wife turn the corner toward the Great Hall, Orlando chuckles beside me.
“Don’t cry, my ass,” he says, while I swipe at my eyes and try to get my shit together. Because God, is she beautiful.
She wears a dress that is so pretty she looks like she stepped out of a fashion catalog. It isn’t the dress, though. It’s her.
The short-sleeved dress has a sheer floral lace overlay and a plunging neckline trimmed with flowers. The back is a deep V. The little cap sleeves make her look fetching and feminine, and the slim waist of the dress cinches and flares to a long skirt that hugs her body before it flourishes downward and graces the floor with pretty embroidered panels. She looks like a princess. Princess. The first little argument we ever had was when I called her princess.
I can only see the tops of her satin shoes, and her pretty honey-colored hair cascades around her face in waves, pinned in place with a pearl clip.
When she sees me, she smiles, clasps the bouquet of fresh flowers from the garden to her chest, then walks toward me on Sergio’s arm.
He gives me a look as he walks toward me, almost surprised, definitely resigned, and a little bit wary. This decision will be in his family’s best interest, we know that. But he doesn’t know what to expect from me.
When they reach us, I kiss her cheek and take her arm.
“Take good care of her,” Sergio says warmly.
“You have my word,” I promise him. And I mean it. Taking care of Vivia and the family we create together will be my life’s work.
“You look stunning,” I whisper to her.
“You look like Prince Charming,” she whispers to me.
Grinning, we face the altar, the priest.
And the rest of our lives.
* * *