Page 92 of Bid For Me

All I care about is her.

Elle. My wife-to-be.

I haven’t seen her since last night, and I can’t stop thinking about the small box I left with Candy to give her this morning. The pendant. The forget-me-not. A stupid little token – an impulse that clawed at me until I gave in. I’d told myself she might not even open it. That she might roll her eyes at it.

I exhale sharply and glance down at the polished floor, counting the veins in the marble to stop myself from fidgeting. I’m not nervous – not in the way people think. I’m not afraid of standing up here, of making vows I’m not ready for, of theactof it all. I’m nervous because this is it.

I go rigid as the soft, sweeping notes of a string quartet spill through the high arches of the church. It’s slow and haunting, a melody that twists and unfurls through the air like something alive. The doors at the far end swing open, and I swear the shift in the room is physical. Everyone holds their breath.

Including me.

The world slows to a crawl the second Elle steps through the doors. My pulse is louder than the violin’s strings, my chest tightening as I take her in.

She stands framed in the doorway like a painting come to life, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight streaming through the stained glass. She’s luminous. Effortlessly, unfairly so.

Her dress is simple – soft, flowing, not ostentatious like some women might wear – and made of delicate ivory silk that clings to her shape, pooling slightly around her feet like ripples of water. It flows with every step she takes, her hips moving with that quiet confidence that always gets to me. Tiny beads glint like dew drops on her bodice, their shimmer catching the light, but all I can focus on is her.

I don’t know what I expected her to wear – something stiffer, more bridal, perhaps – but this feels like her. Like a woman who’s made of defiance and softness in equal measure. Stunning and breath-taking.

Her golden hair is twisted back in a way that makes her look like royalty, a few strands curling softly to frame her face. Her cheeks are flushed, though whether it’s from nerves or defiance, I can’t tell.

She’s the perfect blend of confidence and grace – her essence.

But it’s the delicate flash at her throat that steals the breath from my lungs.

I freeze as my chest tightens and my gaze zeroes in on the pale pink sapphire forget-me-not pendant resting above her collarbone, nestled in place against her skin as though it’s always belonged there. It catches the light, drawing my gaze like a lodestone.

I hadn’t let myself hope she’d wear it. I almost hadn’t sent it at all. It felt like a pathetic offering – too delicate, too personal for a marriage arranged like a sordid business deal.

But she’s wearing it. It sits there like a private confession, a silent whisper between us. A thousand unspoken words wrapped in a silvery chain and a pink stone – small, delicate,hers. Theforget-me-not in a pale pink sapphire is so subtle, but I see it as clearly as if it were neon. My pulse stutters at the sight of it.

A piece of me, resting against her skin.

The sight unmoors me, shakes something loose deep in my chest. And I realise I’m smiling. A stupid, helpless smile I couldn’t suppress if I tried.

She lifts her eyes, meeting mine, and for half a heartbeat, one breathless moment, the world stops turning.

It’s all there – every unspoken word, every question hanging heavy in the air between us. She looks...steady. Poised. But there’s something in her gaze that she doesn’t want me to see. A flicker of vulnerability, or maybe doubt.

Then her chin lifts in that way that’s so distinctlyElle, like she’s daring me to think she’s anything less than perfect. And just like that, the moment’s gone. She looks away, moving forward down the aisle.

Her brother, Aiden, escorts her with the solemn precision of someone determined not to let their emotions show. I briefly wonder why it’s not her father walking her down the aisle, but then she distracts me again and the thought is gone.

She’s untouchable and perfect, and I’m reminded of every stupid little detail I’ve ever loved about her. The way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The way her laugh sounded when she let herself befree.

Now she’s here, in front of me, wearingmypendant.

For a split second, it doesn’t matter that this wedding started as a lie. That we’re standing here because of pressure and legacy. Because when Elle stops at the altar and lifts her chin, something stirs in me – a terrifying, hopeful ache I can’t name.

The forget-me-nots are small, delicate, simple.

Just like the first version of us – two kids with nothing but time and dreams, sketching flowers on scrap paper.

And now?

Now, I’m starting to hope that maybe we can sketch something real together.

A lump catches in my throat as she moves closer, the music swelling around us. I don’t hear it. I don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in my ears and the pounding of my heart as I drink her in. I notice everything – how her chin lifts ever so slightly as though daring the room to look at her, the slight tremble of her hand on her brother’s arm, the way her steps are perfectly measured, even though her chest rises and falls like she’s trying to catch her breath.