Page 56

Six months later

The dress is white. And long. And lace.

The flowers are white, cascading and soft.

The drapery is white, flowing and billowing on the wings of the wind.

Matthew’s bow tie is white. His smile is blinding. I see it, there at the end of the aisle.

White and light and bright.

Yes. The color of the day is once again white .

It’s a blazing September day, just one week after Matthew’s birthday, a year to the day after we met, when I walk up the aisle to marry him.

His family is here and a few close friends.

Ray stands by, near the top of the aisle, with our wedding bands.

Florence Vanderbilt has a seat on the aisle, a ring on her finger and Daniel Dufour on her arm.

Mellie is here too, positively bursting with excitement.

And there’s Harry Astor skulking in the back, because it simply wouldn’t do to separate the trifecta in the waning hours of their prime.

But all I really see is Matthew, straight ahead. Next to the altar, which drips with Spanish moss and white blooms. He’s smiling, beaming. Pulling me toward him on an invisible string. The light is shining from both the sun above and his gorgeous face. When it hits me, I am radiant.

“This is it, Kitty-Kat.”

I turn to look at Abe as we reach the top of the aisle.

“Who would’ve thought you’d have a white wedding?” he whispers, leaning in to give me a hug. “And that I’d be here with you to see it? To give you away.”

“Not me,” I admit.

Matthew moves forward, and I give him my hand. Abe steps back, settling into a seat in the front row beside Tony and Ethan.

Matthew’s bright blue eyes latch onto mine. “Beautiful dress.”

“Thank you. It’s new.” Parisian House of Worth couture, pearls and lace, drop waist, and—of course—antique white. Smiling, I listen as the minister speaks. He uses many words, pretty words. Flowery words.

Yours. Mine. Ours. Forever.

Matthew slips a wedding band on my finger, and finally, I get to slide a ring on his. One that marks him as mine.

Yours. Mine. Ours. Forever.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the minister proclaims, “for the very first time as husband and wife, I present to you…Dr. and Mrs. Matthew DaMolin. You may now kiss your bride.”

Wife.

Not wolf. Not Royal.

Not Paul’s. Not Abe’s.

Matthew’s. Matthew’s wife .

He dips me back and gives me the sweetest, simplest, most perfect kiss. I let him take my hand and raise it high. Everyone cheers as we run down the aisle together.

A new adrenaline rush fills me, the one I associate with being his.

It’s a different kind of rush, certainly, but it’s one we discovered together. From each other, which makes it the only kind I’ll ever need.

And if my well-conditioned sticky fingers just so happen to dart in and out of a few pockets during the receiving line or swipe a diamond hairpin from a certain blonde Academy socialite’s head on the dance floor…well .

Maybe you saw me, maybe you didn’t.

Old habits and all that.