Page 46 of When Hearts Surrender

My palms grow sweaty and the air thins as the cathedral quiets.

I blow out one deep breath. And another.

The double doors open and a ray of light casting on the center aisle renders the bride in an otherworldly, ethereal glow.

I promptly lose my breath.

My heart hammers wildly inside my chest.

She’s wearing a long-sleeve gown that is modest, yet sexy, the silk draping over every delectable curve of her body. A swirling heat makes its way down my spine, chasing away the chills from earlier.

A silver jeweled chain peeks out from the modest neckline and I know she’s wearing the necklace I gave her.

I was approving the antiquities Lana planned to purchase for the upcoming charity gala at the estate when I saw the locket on the website. My breath stalled in my throat, and I knew no one else could have it…no one else other than Belle.

The music increases in volume as Belle glides down the aisle, her dad at her side. She stumbles but quickly recovers as she recognizes the enthralling melody of “Nessun Dorma,” the instrumental version, reverberating in the vast interior.

Her eyes widen, her gaze ensnaring mine, and a sharp current, so tangible I can almost see it, locks between us, the world fading into a blur of shadows and whispers.

In this civil, unemotional affair, the selfish man inside me couldn’t help but give Silas and Anna an ode of recognition with the song—our song—the one that began our story.

It’s fitting for the story of Silas and Anna to end with this aria.

Belle doles out a trembling smile, one I can see through the sheer long veil she has on as she continues walking up the aisle.

Toward me.

Adrenaline courses through my veins and I feel breathless. My fingers twitch at my sides.

Mine. Finally mine.

A strange voice screams inside my head and I fist my hands, making sure my nails dig into the flesh of my palms to the point of pain. Anything to keep me from bolting down the aisle, taking her hand, and running away.

Far, far away from here, from everything.

Her dad places her hand on mine.

My hand closes on hers automatically, the simple touch eliciting shivers down my spine and I hear her quick intake of breath.

I don’t look at her.

I don’t give her an ounce of compassion or camaraderie as we stand in front of the priest. My sanity is frayed at the edges as is.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”

The next hour passes by in a surreal blur and I feel the heat of the audience’s attention on me.

Don’t think about them. Don’t look at them.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I accept myself.

“…join your hands and declare your consent before God and his Church,” the priest instructs.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers before turning toward her and taking her hands in mine. Locking my jaw, I stare at her, not smiling, not yielding an ounce of warmth.

I can’t let her think this is anything more than a loveless arrangement.

The priest murmurs the next words to me as my throat tightens into a vise.

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