Page 46 of Kandi's Crush: A BWWM Sweet Billionaire Romance

“Shit. I have a ring.” I reached into the drawer of the cocktail table and pulled out the red leather jewelry box. “This is the ring?my grandfather used when he proposed to my grandmother. They were married for fifty years until he passed away. She gave it to me with the instruction to propose to the woman who captures the true essence of my heart.”

Kandace was silent. Come on, Sweets. Don’t do this to me. ?Each nanosecond that ticked by threatened to break my heart. I attempted to plan a way to back out.

“Cursing during the proposal isn’t a good way to start off a marriage.” She sniffled as a lone tear rolled down her cheek, but her smile took my breath away.

“Does that mean?” I was afraid to finish the question.

“Yes. I will marry you.” She nodded, tears rimming her eyes.

I slid the platinum, emerald-cut diamond ring on her finger, and she pulled me to her until our lips touched.

I stood, taking her with me. I couldn’t control the grin that stretched across my face. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world. I promise I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“I can’t wait to tell my . . .” Her words trailed off. “What about our families?” she whispered. I shook my head and smiled, not giving a damn what judgment any of them might pass on us.

“Sweets, I don’t care about our families’ opinions. I want to marry you.”

Kandace

Breathe, Kandace. Breathe.

I stood in the tiny vestibule leading to the altar where Chadwick and I would vow to love, cherish, and forsake all others. Looking toward the heavens, I practiced the perfect, “I do.”

At any moment, our wedding consultant, Natalia, would give the alert to begin my walk down the aisle. She would fling the white French doors open, and I would take the first steps to my future.

My future with Chadwick St. Clair.

Five days earlier, Chadwick had slid his grandmother’s diamond ring onto my finger and asked me to be his wife. I was giddy with joy when I suggested we elope. We excitedly rattled off locations for our ceremony, and three days later, a private jet whisked us away to Vegas.

Eloping sounded so romantic. I imagined the two of us like Romeo and Juliet, sneaking off in the middle of the night to elope.

The theme of the wedding was, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” Other than our wedding vendors and the great state of Nevada, our nuptials were a secret. After less than two months of dating, our families and friends would say we were moving too fast. Our marriage needed to remain a secret until our families became comfortable with our relationship. Chadwick had advised against secrecy, fearing it could lead to hurt feelings. He’d gone along with it, but we’d compromised that in six months, we would have a small ceremony for our families and close friends.

Chadwick would never admit it, but I sensed a bit of relief in his demeanor after we agreed to elope. His friends had shared plenty of stories of Bridezilla behavior during the wedding planning stage, and he preferred not to experience that firsthand.

We both feared that our mothers would have insisted on an expensive and bloated affair that rivaled the nuptials of the royal family. We would’ve had to give up an entire year of our lives for a perfect pageant. There would’ve been a dozen bridesmaids, fireworks, and hundreds of drunken guests. Our wedding wouldn’t have resembled the day we planned in our minds.

Eloping would disappoint my mother, grandmother, and aunt. They enjoyed being front and center in all aspects of my life. In addition, my mother liked to live out her dreams through me, and my wedding had always been at the peak of her fantasies. I shuddered at the thought of the four of us shopping for wedding dresses. I wouldn’t have been an engaged woman capable of deciding about what she wanted to wear—they would have treated me like a doll. Silent, pretty, requiring help to dress herself, and made for someone else’s enjoyment.

The soft white lace and chiffon Reem Acra gown was far more traditional than I’d ever imagined myself wearing, but when I tried it on, I felt like a princess. It was the gown I wanted to wear when I walked down the aisle into the arms of my future husband.

If I had to hurt a few feelings to have a stress-free wedding day, then?so be it.

Truthfully, I was far from relaxed. I wasn’t sure how my life would change once we were back in New Orleans. I’d always known that the St. Clairs were well-off, but I didn’t get a true sense of their wealth until Chadwick and I departed for Las Vegas.

We’d agreed to a proper ceremony with a reverend, formal attire, and cake. Yet, I hadn’t prepared for Chadwick’s version of elopement—private jets, hotel penthouse suites, and couture bridal gowns. Without a blink of an eye, Chadwick charged an amount equivalent to the median income of a New Orleanian household to his black credit card.

I grew up in a solidly middle-class household and couldn’t imagine being so wealthy that our spur-of-the-moment nuptials would be a drop in the bucket. I’d imagined a difficult adjustment not only to marriage but to marrying into a lifestyle where money was no object.

Then there was that little matter of outsiders doubting my love for him and viewing me as a gold digger. I knew that I needed to develop a thicker skin or else I would become insecure in our love.

There was no manual, mentoring program or classes for marrying into wealth. Sensing my apprehension, Chadwick assured me he would be by my side for the rest of our lives.

But as I stood in that small hallway, my nervousness elevated to a mild panic, and fear gripped my thoughts. I was marrying a family friend, and my grandfather wasn’t there to walk me down the aisle. My grandmother and aunt would not sing “The Lord’s Prayer.” My mother wouldn’t make sure my veil was straight and kiss me before she joined the processional. The only connection to my family was my great grandmother’s antique comb. What was I doing?

“You’re perfect,” Natalia cooed, sensing my panic. She pulled the blusher over my face before walking around to smooth the waist-length veil over my gown. “Don’t be nervous. You’ve got this. Wait until you see your groom . . .” She fanned herself. “I think you’ll be thrilled when you see him.”

Natalia and I both giggled, and my case of the jitters dissipated. Over the last two days, we’d become fond of each other. She was a consummate professional and shared my love for romanticism. From the selection of couture gowns to the trips to the Forum Shops for the bridal trousseau, the wedding planning process had been a first-class experience, and Natalia had pulled off a miracle in a remarkably short time.

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