Pretenddd you’re my wife. Dance with me now.”

One year later.

The gardens of the Fierro coastal estate in Rhode Island were blanketed in soft white hydrangeas and blooming roses. The salty breeze from the Atlantic ocean carried the sound of laughter, music, and the clinking of champagne flutes across the sun-drenched lawn.

Today was our real wedding.

There were no contracts. There were no fake announcements, no socialite ambushes, and no transactional calculations. Eleanor Fierro was not here—she had permanently retired to a villa in Tuscany, completely stripped of any influence over the family trust. Marcus Vance was bankrupt, Camille was serving her time in Connecticut, and Tyler Dawson was rotting in a federal prison cell in Pennsylvania, entirely forgotten by the world.

Today, only the people who loved us filled the garden chairs: Sarah, standing as my maid of honor in a blush-pink gown; my sister Emily, who had long since apologized in tears for her behavior at her own wedding; my chief of pediatric medicine; and fifty nurses and doctors from St. Matthew’s.

I stood in the sunlit bridal suite, looking at myself in the antique mirror.

My wedding dress was a masterpiece of ivory lace and silk chiffon, trailing behind me in soft, delicate waves. My hair was down, cascading in soft curls over my shoulders, woven with baby’s breath and small pearls. I was no longer the exhausted, terrified single mother counting pennies at Table Twelve beside the kitchen doors.

I was happy. Deeply, radiantly happy.

The door opened, and a tiny tornado of white tulle burst into the room.

“Mommy! Mommy, look at my dress! I’m a swan!”

Lily spun in the center of the room, her flower-girl dress flaring out like a miniature cloud. At six years old, she was taller, her hazel eyes sparkling with pure, untamed joy. Around her neck hung a small silver locket that Giovanni had given her for her sixth birthday—inside were two pictures: one of me holding her as a baby, and one of Giovanni carrying her on his shoulders at the Central Park Zoo.

“You are the most beautiful swan in the whole world, baby,” I laughed, kneeling down—ignoring the silk of my dress—and wrapping my arms around her.

Lily hugged me tightly, then pulled back, her little face turning serious. “Daddy said I have an important job. I have to hold the rings until the music stops, or the dragon won't let us have cake.”

My heart melted. *Daddy.* Hearing her say that word with such total, effortless trust never failed to bring tears to my eyes. Giovanni had spent every single day of the past year earning that title. He walked her to school every morning before going to his office. He helped her with math homework. When she had a fever during the winter, he refused to leave her bedside, holding her hand while I administered fluids, looking more terrified of her illness than he had ever been of any boardroom rival.

“You hold those rings tight, my sweet girl,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Go find Aunt Sarah. It’s almost time.”

Lily giggled and darted back out the door, her patent-leather shoes clicking down the hall.

A soft knock sounded at the open doorway.

I looked up.

Giovanni stood there. He looked devastating in a midnight-navy tuxedo, a single white rose pinned to his lapel. The scar on his jaw caught the afternoon light, but his amber eyes were completely soft, overflowing with a love so vast it took my breath away.

“You aren't supposed to see the bride before the ceremony,” I whispered, a smile curving my lips.

Giovanni walked into the room, closing the door behind him. “I don't follow rules, Jessica. You should know that by now.”

He stopped in front of me, his gaze sweeping over my dress, over my face, his breath catching in his throat. He slowly reached out, his warm, strong hand resting gently against my cheek, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone with infinite reverence.

“You are breathtaking,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“You aren't so bad yourself, Mr. Fierro,” I replied, leaning into his touch.

Giovanni reached into his tuxedo coat and pulled out a folded piece of heavy parchment, yellowed slightly at the edges.

I recognized it instantly. It was the original prenuptial agreement we had signed in Arthur Vance’s conference room one year ago—the contract that stipulated separate bedrooms, a two-year limit, and a ten-million-dollar buyout.

Giovanni held it between us. With a calm, deliberate movement, he tore the paper down the middle.

Then he tore it again, and again, until the pieces fluttered into the small fireplace in the corner of the room, turning into harmless ash against the hearth.

“What was that for?” I smiled through the tears rising in my eyes.

Giovanni pulled me to him, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist, lifting me against his heart.

“Because forever is not a pretense, Jessica,” he whispered against my lips, his breath warm and sweet. “I don't want a contract. I don't want an escape clause. I want every morning with you and Lily. I want your laughter when the apartment gets messy. I want your hand in mine when our hair is gray and our steps are slow. You saved my soul, Jessica Hale. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never shed another tear of sorrow.”

“I love you, Giovanni,” I said, burying my face into his neck, breathing in the scent of sandalwood, rain, and home. “More than life.”

“And I love you,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head, then lifting my chin to press a slow, deep, promise-filled kiss onto my lips. “My wife. My only truth.”

Outside, the string quartet began to play the opening notes of the bridal march.

The door opened, and Lily peeked her head in, holding her flower basket and grinning from ear to ear. “Daddy! Mommy! The music is starting! Come on!”

Giovanni smiled, offering his arm to me with a formal, courtly bow that mirrored the dance floor where this wild, impossible journey had begun.

“Shall we dance, Mrs. Fierro?”