Page 38 of Not His Bride

The theater is still. Even the fog on the stage seems to slow, like it wants to hear what I’ll say.

“I had a crush on you for years before you ever knew my name,” I begin.

Gallagher’s brows lift slightly, even though this shouldn’t be news to him.

“A humiliating one, actually. I once paid for a plate at a children’s hospital banquet because I thought you were going to be there. You weren’t. I had misread somebody else’s name.”

A few people laugh, and Gallagher’s mouth pulls at one corner.

“Back then, I thought I knew exactly who you were. Gallagher Cortez: billionaire, perfect suit, impossible confidence. The kind of man who walked into a room and everybody shit their pants with nerves.”

I squeeze his hands. “Then I actually met you. And you were so much better than I expected. You own a Phantom glass that should have been thrown away years ago—and yes, I agree with Marta; you should have thrown that thing out years ago.”

He teasingly mouths, “Traitor.”

I keep going. “You named your cat Gumby. You’re ridiculously competitive about fictional chandelier scenes, and when you decide you care about somebody, apparently your solution is to rent an entire theater.”

My chest warms thinking about that day. “I spent years thinking I wanted the man everybody else saw. I don’t. I want the man who feeds his cat before he answers his phone. The one who learned when to stay beside me and when to let me handle something myself. The one who can admit he was wrong even when it costs him something.”

My throat tightens. “I used to think being loved meant finally being important enough that someone would notice me. You taught me something better: I don’t have to make myself useful enough to earn a place beside you.”

I pause to relax my shoulders.

“So my vow is that I’m never going back to being invisible. Not with you. I’ll tell you when I’m angry. I’ll tell you when I need something. I’ll tell you when you’re being an asshole, which I assume will happen regularly.”

That gets a laugh from our guests.

“And I’ll love the real you. Not the man I had a crush on from across ballrooms and magazine articles. You. The annoyingly stubborn man standing in front of me. And when life gets ugly, or boring, or hard, I promise I won’t disappear inside it. You’ll always know exactly where I stand…which is usually right here, probably telling you that the graveyard scene is better.”

Gallagher shakes his head. “It isn’t.”

“See? This marriage is already going beautifully.”

The officiant gives us a second to stop smiling at each other before clearing her throat. “By the power vested in me,” she says the bare minimum legal line, “I now pronounce you married. You may kiss the bride.”

He does. One hand comes up along my jaw. He kisses me like it’s only the two of us, which, in a way, it is.

My hands curl into the lapel of his jacket, anchoring us.

When we break apart, there’s a half-second of shocked quiet.

Then Ziterweigen—pro, mentor, first real champion—leads the applause with a snap and a low, approving clap.

Debbie doesn’t linger. She watches, neutral and dry, but there is a flicker of respect.

From the front row, Gumby finally emerges from his carrier, stretches, then pads across the foggy stage. He winds a path straight through our feet, tail up, like he’s known this was the plan all along.

The applause builds.

Gallagher looks down at me and doesn’t say a word.

This is how you rewrite the ending. With your own vows and a cat at your feet.

Chapter 16

Gallagher: Epilogue

It’s been seven years since Lilith married me for the second time, and somehow, we’ve produced three children who treat every morning like an unrehearsed production of Phantom of the Opera. Even Gumby knows to avoid the kids before ten a.m.