Page 172 of Dial F for Finance

“Ready?” I ask.

Audrey turns to me, her eyes bright and clear behind her lenses. “I am. Let’s go marry Logan. Actually, that’s a weird way to put it. You’re not marrying Logan, I am. I should rephrase—yes, I’m ready to marry Logan.”

We all stand and smile at her as she presses her lips together.

“Hmm. Maybe I am a little nervous.”

“Nervous is good,” I assure her, smoothing a microscopic, almost invisible wrinkle from her shoulder. “It demonstrates proper respect for the magnitude of a binding legal and emotional contract. If you were completely devoid of anxiety, I’d think you were a replicant, and Logan would have to pause the ceremony to run diagnostics.”

Audrey exhales a sharp breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “Right. Thank you. That actually helps.”

“Anytime. I can speak nerd with the best of them. Now, let’s go execute this timeline.”

Audrey lets out a giggle as I turn to the rest of the bridal party.

“Positions, ladies.”

We file out of the back bedroom and make our way to the terrace doors. The crisp October air smells of pine and the deep, clean scent of the lake. The string quartet transitions smoothly into a classical arrangement of some obscure science-fiction theme Audrey requested.

I step out onto the grass, locking my posture as my eyes scan the guests. But the moment my gaze reaches the front of the aisle, my composure instantly evaporates.

Dominic is standing next to Logan.

He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit that clings to his athletic build with aggressive perfection. His dark eyes lock onto mine the second I emerge, tracking my deliberate glide down the aisle with a slow, devastating intensity. The air between us thickens. He doesn’t smile. He just watches me move, and the look on his face is so explicitly territorial that a traitorous, molten heat pools low in my stomach.

Maintain the pace, I tell myself. Do not turn into a puddle just because your husband is devastatingly attractive and wants you naked.

I raise a single eyebrow at him, a silent demand for him to behave.

Dominic’s lips twitch into that half-smile he does. He shifts his weight, sliding one hand into his pocket, completely unbothered by my attempt at authority.

Beside him, Logan is adjusting his glasses for the fourth time in ten seconds, his entire frame practically vibrating with nervous energy. Without breaking eye contact with me, Dominic reaches out and places a heavy, steadying hand on Logan’s shoulder. It’s a quiet, grounding movement. Logan stops twitching, taking a deep, measured breath.

It’s a tiny gesture, but it sets off the butterflies in my belly. My husband, steadying the man who steadied him first.

I reach my mark at the front of the aisle and turn, taking my place. Dominic is only a few feet away now.

“You look stunning,” he mouths, the words barely a breath, meant only for me.

“Focus, Pemberton-Cruz,” I mouth back, though the corners of my mouth betray me with a soft smile.

The music swells. The guests rise. Logan’s eyes widen, filled with absolute, unadulterated awe as Audrey steps into the golden light with her father by her side. I watch the groom forget the entire world exists except for the woman walking toward him, and then I look back at Dominic, who is, of course, still looking at me.

Dominic lifts his chin toward the aisle, silently reminding me whose wedding this is. I turn just as Audrey nears Logan, though I can still feel my husband watching me from three feet away.

Audrey floats up to the altar, takes Logan’s arm, and for a second the whole world goes still except for the sound of their vows.

Logan cries the entire time—in perfect silence, making no attempt to hide it. Audrey’s vows include the sentence “I love you with a ninety-eight percent confidence interval, and the remaining two percent is measurement error.” Logan’s include “you are the only system I never want to optimize.”

It’s not until the rings are exchanged and they turn to face each other—Audrey’s hands visibly trembling now, Logan’s composure having long since liquefied—that I see Dominic’s jaw flex, the faintest shimmer in his dark eyes. The man who can out-argue anyone, who can freeze a room with a glance, is a sucker for weddings. And as I watch the single tear track down from his eye, I’m reminded of how he openly wept when we exchanged our vows in Tokyo only five months ago . . .

“Jenna Pemberton. I have spent ten years trying to make you look at me and ten days discovering that being truly seen by you is the only attention I’ve ever wanted.

“I love your mind. Your height. Your sharp edges and impossible standards. I love how deeply you care, even when you’d rather no one notice. The way your silences say more than most people manage in an hour. The way every real smile still feels like a gift.

“I love the woman who laughs with her whole body and falls asleep with one cold foot pressed against my leg. The woman who is scared and angry and still brave enough to stand in front of me. I love the parts of you you show the world and every soft, secret part you’ve trusted me enough to see.

“I promise never to ask you to become easier to hold.