The private chapel was tucked away on the grounds of a sprawling, centuries-old estate in the Cotswolds, hidden completely from the prying eyes of the world. It was a crisp, perfect autumn afternoon, the ancient stonework of the building draped in vibrant ivy that had turned a brilliant, fiery red. Inside, the air was thick with the sweet, heady scent of white lilies and the warm, golden glow of hundreds of flickering candles.I stood in the arched doorway, my heart beating a frantic, joyful rhythm against my ribs. I wore a bespoke gown of heavy ivory silk that clung perfectly to my curves, devoid of excessive lace or jewels – it was elegant, ruthless, and felt entirely like armour of a different sort. A sheer, cathedral-length veil trailed behind me on the ancient flagstones, softening the sharp edges I usually presented to the world.At the end of the aisle stood Franco.He was breathtaking. Dressed in a sharply tailored, midnight-blue tuxedo that highlighted the broad, powerful line
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