Aria

“I told you—he’s my husband,” I repeated flatly, arms crossed, to the house manager who was still gawking like I’d just climbed out of a spaceship.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were… the new bride,” he stammered, eyes darting between me and my van. “The van was, uh… deceiving.”

I turned and glanced at the yellow beast parked under the tall pines. My van. My home.

What exactly was deceiving about it?

Okay, so it wasn’t a Rolls-Royce. But ...