The chapel was decorated in calla lilies.

I sat in the third row in a muted champagne satin gown that clung to every line of my body, hands locked so tightly in my lap that my nails left half-moons in my palms.

“My collar is so fucking tight,” Tristan muttered beside me, but my mind was a messy mix of emotions to even care about his whines.

At the altar stood Malcolm Cross in a midnight tux that made every other man in the room look underdressed. Silver streaked the dark hair brushed ...