"Tyr," he calls my name in a barely audible whisper, a cue delivered with surgical precision.
I swallow, my mouth dry. I realize, with a sickening lurch, that I was supposed to answer the crucial question: whether I would take Vega to be my dearly beloved husband. My brain scrambles.
I clear my throat and manage a bright, utterly false "Yes," pulling my lips into a wide, confident smile.
The officiator beams, clearly pleased.
Just then, my gaze drifts past the officiator to the small cluster of people seated in the benches. I freeze. I meet a stone-cold gaze, an old woman's gaze, that pierces me like ice. She sits ramrod straight, her expression utterly devoid of warmth.
I feel like that look is digging out my secrets, stripping away the silk and the makeup to reveal the fraud beneath. Behind her stands a tall, intimidating man, whose eyes hold an amused, assumed look, like he knows the entire farce we're performing.
I immediately look away, back at Vega's profile. I need to cover up for my mistake.
"I'm so sorry," I say, my voice just loud enough for the officiator and my father to hear. "I was dazzled by his handsome face for a moment."
Leif and the officiator chuckle, the warm sound breaking the tension. Seth stifles his smile, shaking his head slightly.
The rings have been exchanged, the cold, heavy platinum now chilling my finger. I think we are finally done, left only with the paperwork.
Then the officiator, with a beatific smile, announces, "You may kiss the bride."
My eyes widen. Aaaahhh. Kiss this big devil? This man who just days ago threatened "consequences" if I dared to touch him? This is the one mandatory, public act of affection, and it's one we both desperately want to avoid.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds... ten seconds. Vega doesn't make a move. He stands there, stone-faced, his eyes fixed on some point just over my shoulder, calculating the risk. The silence stretches, becoming loud, awkward, and obvious.
Then, I hear a soft, contemptuous sneer from the back of the room, a sound I immediately recognize as belonging to the tall man standing behind the old woman. They are watching the failure of the performance. I know it is now or never. If he doesn't do it, the lie collapses here.
Seth opens his mouth, clearly about to offer some panicked, ridiculous excuse about tradition or cultural difference. But he quickly shuts it.
That's because I move. I reach up, grab the back of Vega's neck, and pull him down into a kiss, forcing the issue. His body goes instantly rigid against mine.
Just a quick peck. That's all that's needed. But then I feel them.
His lips are softer than anything I could have imagined. Pillowy and warm, a shocking contrast to the man they belong to. The faint, clean scent of his skin, sandalwood and crisp linen, floods my senses. The planned fleeting touch evaporates.
My eyes flutter shut of their own accord. The press of my mouth against his deepens, transforms. It's no longer a fleeting touch but an exploration. The taste of him is subtly sweet, like expensive brandy and mint, and it's an intoxicant.
I crave more of it. My other hand comes up, my palm flattening against the impossibly fine wool of his suit jacket, feeling the solid, unyielding wall of his chest beneath.
The buzz in my head gets louder, drowning out the gasps from the guests. There is only this. The heat. The surprising softness. The way my body seems to lean into his of its own volition, my leg pressing against his.
I test the boundary.
It's a small movement, almost unconscious. My tongue sweeps lightly, tentatively, across the seam of his lips. Just a taste. Just to see.
It's like throwing a switch.
His entire body goes even more tense. In an instant, the passive, indifferent statue is gone. His hand comes up, his fingers wrapping around my wrist.
His grip isn't cruel, but it is absolute, an iron band of restraint. He pulls my hand from his neck, breaking the kiss, putting distance between us.
The rest is a blur.
The officiant, flustered, quickly moves on. I'm guided to the table. My hand, when I pick up the pen, is shaking. I sign my name on the line that officially makes me Tyr Vastano. The pen feels like a lead weight. Vega signs after me, his signature a sharp, brutal slash of black ink.
As for the pictures. We pose in front of the decorated wall meant for all newlyweds. His arm is around my waist, a required gesture for the cameras. His touch is formal, his hand resting on the curve of my hip bone but we manage to sell the perfect couple image.
***
The final signatures are dry, the vows exchanged, and the lie is officially legal. I walk toward the elevators, my new husband beside me. My father is no longer with us. He had to rush back to the gym after receiving a call about the repair material being delivered early. It's only the two of us plus Seth.
We get into the Maybach parked in the underground lot. The silence is thick, charged with the tension from the unexpected kiss.
As soon as the car starts moving, I break the silence. "Was that your grandma and uncle?" I ask, looking at his stony profile. "Why didn't they stay for the rest of the ceremony?"
The car pulls out of the garage and onto the road. Vega completely ignores me, staring out the window.
"Vega," I press, using his name to demand his attention.
He finally turns, and I can see he's been holding back something explosive until this moment.
"What did I say before?" he demands, his voice dangerously low.
"Uh, it was an emergency," I reply, my tone defensive. "Weren't I supposed to convince them that it was real?"
"A kiss on the cheek would have sufficed," he hisses, the memory clearly fouling his mood. "Even a fleeting kiss. But you..."