The phone felt warm against my ear as I waited for Declan's response. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat echoing the words I'd just spoken: *Let's get married. Right now.*

"Always," he repeated, his voice steady and sure. No hesitation. No questions.

I pressed my fingers against my lips, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape. "I'm serious, Declan. I want to marry you today."

"Where are you?" he asked, his tone shifting from concern to action.

"Lumina Studios. Outside."

"Stay there." The line went dead before I could respond.

I sank onto a nearby bench, my legs suddenly too weak to support me. The image of Kyle and Makenzie burned behind my eyelids—his pitying expression, her triumphant smirk. My carefully planned future crumbling in an instant.

A sleek black Rolls Royce pulled up to the curb three minutes later. The driver stepped out, nodding respectfully. "Miss Harrison? Mr. Anderson sent me to collect you."

As I slid into the leather interior, the tears I'd been holding back finally broke free. They came in waves, silent at first, then building into full-bodied sobs that shook my entire body. I pressed my hands against my mouth, trying to muffle the sound.

"Miss?" The driver glanced back in the rearview mirror, concern etched across his features.

"I'm fine," I managed between gasping breaths. "Just give me a minute."

I fumbled in my purse for my makeup bag, fingers trembling as I repaired the damage. Smudged mascara, ruined lipstick—I wiped it all away with practiced precision. By the time the car pulled up to Declan's building, my face was composed again, though my eyes remained red-rimmed.

The elevator whisked me directly to the top floor. When the doors opened, Declan was waiting—not in his office, but in the private foyer, his suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Frankie." He crossed the space between us in three long strides, stopping just short of touching me. His eyes searched mine, looking for something—doubt, perhaps, or regret.

I lifted my chin. "I meant what I said."

He nodded once, decisively. "So did I." He reached for a coat draped over a nearby chair—his coat, I realized, not mine. "We'll need to hurry if we want to make it to City Hall before they close."

No questions. No demands for explanations. Just immediate action.

---

The City Clerk's office was sterile and bright, nothing like the lavish venue I'd chosen for my wedding to Kyle. Rosa was already waiting when we arrived, her eyes widening as she took in my tear-stained face and Declan's protective presence.

"Frankie? What's going on?" she hissed, pulling me aside.

"I'm getting married," I said simply.

Rosa's gaze darted between Declan and me. "To him? Today?"

"Yes." I squeezed her hand. "I need you to be my witness."

Something in my expression must have convinced her this wasn't a joke or a moment of madness. She nodded slowly. "Okay. I'm here."

The ceremony itself was over in minutes. No music, no flowers, no readings from loved ones. Just the three of us—Declan, me, and Rosa—standing before a bored clerk who'd clearly done this a hundred times before.

"Do you, Declan Anderson, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" The clerk's voice was flat, almost mechanical.

"I do." Declan's voice cut through the sterility of the room like a blade. When he spoke those two words, I felt something shift inside me—a weight lifting, a door closing on one life and opening to another.

When it was my turn, I looked up into his eyes. They were intense, focused entirely on me with a ferocity that made my breath catch.

"I do," I whispered.

---

"Mrs. Anderson." Declan's voice was low as he helped me into the limousine waiting outside City Hall.

The name sent a shiver down my spine—not of fear or doubt, but of something else entirely. Something like belonging.

He settled beside me, his presence solid and reassuring. Without warning, he took my hand, his thumb brushing over the simple band we'd just been given.

"This won't do," he murmured, reaching into his pocket.

He pulled out a small velvet box—not new, I noticed, but worn at the edges as if it had been handled many times.

"Open it," he said softly.

Inside was a ring—a massive diamond that caught the fading sunlight streaming through the windows, sending prisms dancing across the leather seats.

"I bought this two years ago," Declan admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "Just in case."

"Just in case?" I echoed, staring at the ring that must have cost more than most people's houses.

He slipped it onto my finger, replacing the temporary band. "In case you ever needed me."

The realization hit me like a physical blow—he'd been carrying this ring, waiting for me, all this time. While I'd been planning a future with Kyle, Declan had been preparing for a future with me.

"How long?" I whispered, unable to tear my eyes from his.

His fingers tightened around mine. "Always, Frankie. I've always been waiting for you."

The maître d' at Le Bernardin greeted Declan with a reverence I'd never seen afforded to anyone—not even Kyle's father at his most imperious. "Mr. Anderson," he said, bowing slightly. "Your usual table is prepared."

I followed Declan through the restaurant, conscious of the whispers that trailed in our wake. The dining room was a symphony of muted elegance—crystal chandeliers casting warm light over white-clothed tables, the soft murmur of cultured conversation, the occasional clink of fine china.

"Mr. Anderson dines here often?" I asked quietly as we were led to a corner table with a panoramic view of the city lights.

"Not often enough," he replied, holding out my chair. "But always when I want to celebrate something meaningful."

The table was set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses that caught the light like diamonds. A bottle of champagne appeared almost instantly, followed by a waiter who began pouring with practiced grace.

"To Mrs. Anderson," Declan said, raising his glass.

The name still sent a thrill through me—part shock, part something else entirely. I took a sip, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue. "I think I need to get used to hearing that."

"You have a lifetime to practice," he replied, his eyes never leaving mine.

I was about to respond when a familiar laugh cut through the ambient noise of the restaurant. My blood ran cold as I turned toward the sound.

Kyle stood near the entrance, his arm wrapped possessively around Makenzie's waist. She was dressed in a tight red dress that hugged every curve, her blonde hair styled in loose waves that cascaded over one shoulder. Kyle was gesturing animatedly to the maître d', his expression demanding and entitled.

"Frankie?" Declan's voice pulled my attention back to him. "Do you want to leave?"

I straightened my spine, refusing to be driven away from my own celebration. "No. This is our night."

Kyle's eyes scanned the restaurant, and I knew the moment he spotted us. His face darkened, but he leaned down to whisper something in Makenzie's ear. She nodded, her eyes narrowing as she followed his gaze to our table.

"Stay here," Declan murmured, but I was already rising to my feet.

Kyle marched across the restaurant, ignoring the maître d' who tried to intercept him. He stopped directly in front of our table, his eyes fixed solely on me.

"Frankie, this has gone far enough," he said loudly, drawing stares from nearby diners. "This little tantrum—"

"It's not a tantrum," I interrupted coldly. "It's my life."

Kyle's jaw tightened. "You're embarrassing yourself. Whatever game you're playing with him"—he jerked his chin toward Declan—"is childish and pathetic."

"Kyle," I began, but he cut me off.

"We're going home. Now." He reached across the table and grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin. "This ridiculous charade is over."

Before I could respond, Declan stood up. He moved with fluid grace, his presence suddenly filling the space between us. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Take your hand off my wife," he said quietly.

Kyle's grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he looked up at Declan—really looked at him for the first time. Something flickered across Kyle's face—recognition, perhaps, or realization.

"Your wife?" Kyle scoffed, though his voice lacked conviction. "This is insane, Frankie. You can't possibly—"

"I can," I said firmly. "And I have."

Declan placed his hand on Kyle's shoulder, the gesture deceptively casual. But I saw the tension in his arm, the coiled strength barely contained beneath his tailored suit.

"I believe you're interrupting our dinner," Declan said, his voice carrying just enough to draw attention from nearby tables. "And I believe you've mistaken Mrs. Anderson for someone who still tolerates your behavior."

The restaurant had gone quiet, the other patrons watching with undisguised interest. Kyle's face flushed dark red as he became aware of the audience.

"Mrs. Anderson?" he repeated stupidly.

"Yes," Declan confirmed, his tone brooking no argument. "Mrs. Declan Anderson. My wife."

Kyle's hand fell away from my wrist as if burned. He took a step back, his eyes darting between Declan and me, finally registering the truth of our situation.

The whispers started then—soft at first, then growing in volume as the news spread through the restaurant. Kyle stood frozen, visibly shaken by the realization that he'd lost control of the situation—and of me.

I rubbed my wrist where his fingers had left red marks, feeling a strange mixture of vindication and pity as I watched his carefully constructed world begin to crumble.