I don’t. I can’t. My family needs this. So I lift my face. I close my eyes, expecting revulsion, praying for numbness.
But the second our lips meet… all I feel is fire. Real. Immediate. Violent.
It’s been five years since I’ve felt it, and I hate that my body remembers Raf better than I remember myself.
I hate that it responds to him with the same tidal force as it did the night he claimed my first kiss.
And just like that night, the jolt of sensation that blasts through my body steals the air from my lungs.
His lips move against mine—slow, sure, a low drag of possession that sends heat spiraling through me like betrayal.
I gasp into him, and his grip tightens.
Then the church explodes with applause.
We break apart like we’ve been scalded, and I turn quickly to face the congregation, my cheeks burning as I avoid his eyes.
If I look, I’ll fall into something I can’t climb out of again.
As if sensing my desperation to flee, Raf lifts my hand in a victorious display, then rushes me back down the aisle and to the limo waiting for us outside that will take us back to my family home, where we’ve been preparing nonstop to host an elaborate reception.
The Murray estate looks like a fairy tale, even to my familiar gaze, and I stare stunned at the transformation our staff has managed even since this morning.
White canopies stretch over the manicured lawns and chandeliers hang from trees that cling to the last colorful leaves of autumn.
String lights have been strung across the sprawling backyard to illuminate the space with an almost ethereal glow in the dim light of the setting sun.
Beneath the tents, the dinner tables have been covered with crisp white table cloths and drowned in flowers, and champagne flows like water.
A string quartet plays in the corner while paparazzi—real and hired—snap pictures to perpetuate the illusion of joy.
The guests trickle in, finding their places at the tables, and after a short, succinct toast from my father, welcoming all the guests to our home, dinner is served.
But I scarcely get a bite or two before Raf and I are up, my arm looped through his in a display of unity as we make the rounds to thank our guests from coming.
My feet are aching in the sky-high heels I had to wear to avoid being dwarfed by my towering new husband, and by the time we finally part—Raf to have a moment with his brothers while I join my family at their table—I can feel my toes screaming for release.
“You’re a vision, Aisling,” my mother says as she scoops me into a hug.
“Thanks, Mum,” I murmur, fighting the sudden urge to cry.
“Sissy!” Riley cries, jumping up out of her chair and into my arms before Siobhan can stop her. “Did you see my dress?” she demands, pulling the tulle skirt out to show me as I hold her in my arms.
“Yes, you look beautiful,” I confirm, kissing her rosy cheek. Then I ease her back into her chair as my mother insists she finish eating her dinner.
And as soon as her radiant warmth is gone, I feel the sadness tugging at the corners of my lips.
I’m married now.
That means I won’t be going home with my family tonight.
I won’t be there to tuck Riley in or hug my siblings good night.
The thought weighs on me, and it takes all my strength to stiffen my spine and remind myself that this isn’t permanent.
I will come home someday.
Siobhan squeezes my hand. “Smile. It’s your wedding day.”