His Wedding Day Bride
Small corrections, made by someone who'd been awake at four-thirty in the morning making them.
Carter was at the altar, smiling. Three steps in, the music shifted under my heels into a violin, Italian, older than the song I'd chosen. Carter's smile faltered. The room shifted with it.
The side door behind the altar opened.
Atlas Marchetti stepped through. He was in a black suit, not a tuxedo. He'd never worn the same kind of formalwear as Carter, and he'd chosen the suit on purpose, so that no one in the room could pretend they were watching the same wedding I'd been planning.
Bab Populer