Page 51 of Theirs to Corrupt

If I pretend long enough, will I start to believe it?

“I’m ready,” I respond.

Even though we’re a few minutes early, we’re shown into a conference room in the event planning suite and greeted warmly by a woman named Nora.

She’s a whirlwind of efficiency, armed with a tablet and a video of other weddings that they’ve hosted.

“The next part showcases the Bella Rosa’s Sky Chapel. Mr. Carrington has reserved that for your ceremony.”

Oh?

The videos show brides walking down an aisle. In each clip, the room is arranged slightly differently. The room appears casual in some, very formal with pedestals and arches in others.

“It’s on the fiftieth floor, with panoramic views of the Strip. As you can see, the space can be transformed for an intimate ceremony or something more elaborate.”

In the next sequence of shots, there is a floral arch in front of a bank of windows. Some shots have sunshine and puffy clouds as a backdrop. Others have a sky painted for sunset. The final one is a nightscape.

Even in my princess-for-a-day fantasies as a girl, I couldn’t have imagined anything this beautiful. “This is breathtaking,” I say, even though I didn’t mean to speak the words aloud.

Link places his hand right above my knee, sending warmth through me. “I agree, little dove.”

When the video ends, the planner pushes a button on her remote, and the room lights slowly blaze to life. “Did you get any ideas?”

“This will be a small gathering,” Link says. “Around fifty people.”

With a gasp I look at him. On what planet is that many guests a small wedding?“Fifty?”Who has he invited, and how can anyone get away on such ridiculously short notice?

He looks at Pax.

“Give or take,” Pax answers for them both.

There could be more?

“Something simple is fine with me,” I tell Nora.

“More formal than not,” Link contradicts. “Everything in the last segment of the video, the petals, the covered seats, all of it.”

“What?” I blink. “Why?”

“It’s your wedding day.” He locks his gaze on me. “You should have something memorable.”

I don’t want anything like that. Standing in front of a justice of the peace, even a small chapel with a fake Elvis is fine with me. “Link?—”

“Let’s say fifty for the ceremony,” he tells the woman. “Sixty for the reception.”

Are you kidding me?

Avoiding my gaze, she types into her pad.

When she glances up, she looks at me. “Do you have music you’d like to walk down the aisle to?”

“No.” All these questions are making my head swim.

“The wedding march?” she suggests.

I shake my head. This arrangement in no way resembles a real ceremony, and I can’t imagine myself being traditional at this point.

“‘A Thousand Years.’”