Becky
The morning of the wedding, I stood in front of the mirror in a dress I still couldn’t quite believe belonged to me, simple and ivory, nothing like the elaborate gowns I imagined most billionaire weddings required, exactly the way I’d asked for it. Small. Real. Nothing performed for anyone but the people who actually mattered.
Ryder had done a final security walkthrough at dawn, and I’d caught him afterward in the hallway outside my room, still in his usual jeans and boots despite the occasion, though he’d at least traded his customary leather jacket for something slightly more formal.
“Everything’s clear,” he told me, something warm breaking through his usual watchful seriousness. “Nobody’s getting near this house today who doesn’t belong here.”
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it
