Amara’s POVThe courthouse didn't smell like lilies or expensive perfume. It smelled of floor wax, old paper, and the weary desperation of people waiting for traffic court.I sat in the back of the blacked-out SUV, my fingers digging into the silk of my skirt. I wasn't wearing white. I was wearing a tailored, pale grey suit—the color of a storm cloud. It felt appropriate. This wasn't a union of souls; it was a merger of assets."You're shaking," Adrian said.He wasn't looking at me. He was typing a final email on his phone, the blue light reflecting off his sharp cheekbones."I'm not shaking. I'm cold," I lied.Adrian finally tucked his phone away and turned to me. His gaze was heavy, weighing my worth in seconds. Without a word, he reached out and took my hand. His skin was warm, his grip firm and grounding. For a second, I forgot to breathe."The reporters are already at the north exit," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "When we walk out of those doors, you don't look at
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