The Billionaire's Contract Wife

Chapter Twenty

Forever

We were married a second time on a Saturday in late April, at a house in the Hamptons that belonged to no one — we'd rented it because neither of us wanted a venue that came with someone else's history.

Thirty guests. White flowers. The kind of light that only happens in spring, low and gold and making everything look like something worth keeping.

I designed my own dress.

Of course I designed my own dress. Ivory silk, clean lines, a back that took three weeks to construct — all the structural complexity hidden inside, the outside effortless. Lucas's sister-in-law said it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. I thought: that's exactly what it's supposed to be.

Lucas was waiting at the end of the aisle.

He'd worn the suit I'd quietly suggested — dark navy, double-breasted, the cut that made him look like exactly what he was: a man who'd decided. His expression when he saw me walking toward him was not composed. It was not businesslike. It was the look of someone who has dismantled every wall he built and found the view was worth it.

His vows were not long.

He was not a man who used words unless he'd chosen them carefully.

"I spent thirty-two years deciding that love was a liability," he said. "I wrote that into a contract once, which says a great deal about how wrong I was."

Quiet laughter from the guests.

"You were supposed to be a business decision," he said, and I heard the echo of something I'd found in the drawer, a paper that used to mean something different. "You became my entire future. I don't have a roadmap for that. I only know that I will spend whatever time I have making sure you never doubt it."

He looked at me. Just me.

"You were supposed to be my business decision," he said again, softer. "You are the only decision I have ever made that mattered."

I took a breath.

My vows were harder to write. Seven years of a relationship that had ended in a bathroom floor. Eight months of a contract that had become something I didn't have a word for. The particular complexity of learning to trust again when trust has cost you something real.

"I spent a long time believing that if I loved someone, they would leave," I said. "I had evidence."

Lucas's jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. Not at me — at anyone who'd ever given me reason to believe that.

"I think I've been waiting my whole life for someone who stays," I said. "Not because they promised to. Not because a contract required it." I looked at him. "Because when it mattered, you stayed. You always stayed."

We exchanged rings. The same platinum as the first time, except these were engraved inside — his idea, which he'd arranged without telling me. I found out when I slid it onto his finger and the registrar said, quietly, there's an inscription.

Later I would read it: You became my entire future.

Later, he would read mine: You always stayed.

* * *

The terrace after. The guests inside. The sound of the sea distant and steady.

We stood together with our backs against the railing, the last light dying over the water, and I felt the particular quietness of something that has finally arrived.

"I love you," I said.

He was quiet for a moment.

"I loved you first," he said.

I turned to look at him. "That's impossible."

"The swatch," he said. "In the window light. Seven months ago." The corner of his mouth moved — the full version of the thing I'd been seeing fragments of all this time. An actual smile. "I knew then."

"You knew when you looked at fabric?"

"I knew when I looked at you looking at fabric. The way your face was. I didn't have a word for it." A pause. "I do now."

I stared at him.

"Prove it," I said.

He laughed.

I'd heard it only once before, in the penthouse, a sound that escaped before his composure could catch it. Here it was again — fuller, easier, something that had been waiting its whole life to be let out.

He pulled me toward him.

"I will," he said against my hair. "I have the rest of my life."

Behind us, the party continued.

Ahead of us, the sea.

And in the space between, two people who'd built a contract because they were afraid of this — and found their way here anyway.

— END —