Back when I didn’t have the memory of his arms around me, his lips on my skin, permanently seared like a brand I don’t want to get rid of but can’t stand to see.
Or the whispers caressing my ears, reminding me that he’ll never let me go.
I am his, and he is mine.
That’s what we’re supposed to make everyone believe—and as we walk under the golden statue of the Goddess of Fortune, Lady Luck, whatever she’s called, I feel like I need all the luck in the world to pull this charade off.
Men in white tuxedos greet us in the foyer and immediately lead us away from the main floor to a quieter, more private hall. A few turns later, with some stiffened support from Demyen’s arm as I navigate in these stupid stiletto heels, we’re led into an immense ballroom with crystal chandeliers and gilded co
