Page 208 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

I appreciate her support, even though that’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. “Thank you for doing this. I appreciate it.”

“With pleasure.” Her eyes flick to my hands—she notices both rings—and then back to me. “It’s a good night.”

“It is,” I agree.

Beyond the curtain, noise swells, and the stage manager appears. Willow gives my arm one last squeeze before stepping into the light.

“Places, everyone,” Celeste says.

As Willow takes the stage, the AV person does a mic check with me, and my nerves stretch to their breaking point.

Brennan studies the curtain, the angles, the line of sight to the podium and the steps back down, then me. His gaze gentles. “Reminder to also stay in my sightline when you and Dorian exit the stage together.”

“I will.” What happened in the past has made my men even more cautious than they might be otherwise, and I respect that. I know they don’t want anything to happen to me. And the thought of either of them being hurt—or worse—terrifies me.

Staying safe is something we all need to do for each other.

He comes in closer. His fingertips brush mine. It’s a small touch, a grounding wire.

The three of us spend a moment together, locked in an unbreakable circle. Reassured by their strength, my pulse finds a steady rhythm.

The crowd quiets in waves as Willow reaches the podium.

“Good evening,” she says, and the mic adores her.

She talks about service without sounding sanctimonious, about doing the work when the cameras go home. She talks about Texas with the reverence of someone who chooses to give instead of take. She does not talk about herself. She talks about people who lift and stand and refuse to be swayed.

When she says my name, it’s not an introduction—it’s a passing of the torch.

I draw a breath that tastes of stage lights and adrenaline. Brennan’s eyes flick to mine, sharp and sure. Dorian’s fingers graze the small of my back once, enough to tether me to him without holding me there. “I’m proud of you.”

Drinking courage from them, I walk forward.

The curtain parts, the applause swells, and the moment swallows me whole.

The heat from the lights hits first, followed by the bright blur of faces in the front rows and the restless shimmer of cameras along press row. My pulse pounds in my ears, but the applause steadies me—loud, sustained, not polite.

I cross to the podium. My hand rests on the clear acrylic, the pink diamond catching the light. On the monitor, I want my husbands to see all three bands together. A trinity of devotion, strength, and endurance, as Théo had noted.

“When I met Dorian Vale,” I begin, my voice steadier than I expect, “I thought he was the last man I would ever stand beside.”

The room laughs, right where I hoped they would.

“I was wrong. He is relentless. Brilliant. Unapologetically exacting. I have watched him fight battles you never saw, take hits so the people he loves didn’t have to.”

The words come easier now. I tell them how he bends without breaking, to listen without losing himself, to hold power and hold people. I glance toward the wings and find him there—still, watchful, eyes locked on mine. “I support his mission to fight for the Great State of Texas, to fight for you.”

The crowd applauds, waving their Vale for Senate placards.

Once again, I glance toward the wing. He’s there at the edge of the light, carved out of shadow, eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. I swear I canfeel the heat of his hand on the small of my back, even from here.

When the crowd quiets somewhat, I lean forward a little. “It is my great honor”—the words feel like a vow—”to introduce my husband—and your next United States Senator—Dorian Vale!”

The room detonates—applause, whistles, cameras, a lifting sound like joy being loud on purpose. Dorian jogs up the steps to the platform and strides onto the stage full of confidence, looking like a man on his way to the White House.

But before addressing his hundreds of supporters, he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me in a little closer. He takes my mouth, brief and wicked, and presses his thumb against the pink diamond in full view of God and theTexas Chronicle.

He keeps his arm around me for a moment longer, letting the noise crest and settle. Then he takes the podium, gaze sweeping the room until the applause fades to a charged quiet.