Page 70 of Insta Bride

“Elena, is it true Kye has already cheated on you?”

Kye gripped my hand tighter and made as if we were going to make a run through the terminal. The intrusive questions had started on our flight from Brisbane. Journalists and people wanting to sell a snap for cash had been pushing cameras into our face and hurling either questions or insults. Already, women were brazenly trying to steal a kiss or give away their social media deets.

“We should have realized the producers would have set us up.” Kye murmured, pulling me along.

“I guess the wedding episode has aired?” I almost tripped over an eager photographer when Kye pulled me to a stop. In the middle of the bustle, with our names being called by strangers, he stopped and turned me into his chest.

The world kept moving, while we just rocked. His chin resting on my head. I felt the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart, and mine.

“Lena?”

“Hmm.”

“We can keep running for the next six months. We can try and evade them until the show ends.”

“Or?” I looked up, finding his grey eyes sparkling with all the passion from our wedding bed.

“We can show them what young love looks like.”

“Oh,” I giggled, pulling away. “And remind me, what does young love look like?”

Ignoring the whistles and the flashes going off around us, Kye tipped my chin and ran his thumb down my jaw until I pushed my face into his cupped palm.

“Elena. Wife.”

“Kye, husband.”

“Lena, wife.”

“Kye, two days ago was Australia’s sexiest bachelor.”

“Lena. Wife. Life.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re my Life.”

I didn’t wait for his lips to reach mine. I needed to kiss him, taste him, before the words died. He gripped me closer, not allowing others to jostle us apart. Intent on devouring me as intensely in public as he had last night.

We kissed until I wanted to cry from sheer joy.

I’d decided to take a leap of faith, and two days into our marriage, Kye had given me no reason to complain.

We’d had a debrief at the production studio in Brisbane. More studio head shots, half a dozen interviews requiring new styling for each one. All to be drip fed to a hungry audience.

Apparently, there were no substitutes for our show. Kye’s idea to make this legal—and yes, he’d taken full credit—had blown apart the internet. Audiences from around the world wanted to track our every step.

Two couples married in real life, vying for half a million dollars to which ever couple Australia voted as the Real Australian Love Story at another ceremony in six months’ time.

To the other couple, if they stayed together? Fifty-thousand dollars.

In the meantime, the production company would recoup the prize money with interviews, sponsorships and using our image and our words in any way they wanted. The non-disclosure agreement and contract had been updated and I was sure none of my friends would have been silly enough to sign without legal advice.

We had.

We’d survived one month on Lovers’ Island. We could survive six months back with family and friends.

“Ready to go?” Kye thumbed my swollen lips. “Mrs Branson.”

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