“You must be Simone,” he said, his voice smooth and deep.
“And you must be Cameron.”
He extended his hand. She took it.
His grip was warm. Firm. Controlled.
“Shall we?”
“We might as well,” she said. “We’re already here.”
That almost-smile came again. “Practical. I like that.”
The ceremony blurred past. When the vows were spoken, Cameron said “I do” without hesitation.
When it was Simone’s turn, she thought of the basement room, of eighteen years of humiliation, of freedom waiting on the other side.
“I do.”
When the officiant said, “You may kiss the bride,” Cameron looked at her and asked quietly, “May I?”
The courtesy startled her.
He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her gently.
“Hello, wife,” he murmured.
“Hello, husband,” she whispered.
At the reception, the whispers continued. People congratulated Cameron and pitied Simone. Some were openly cruel.
One elegant older woman laughed, “Well, Cameron, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”
Simone’s face burned.
Without looking at her, Cameron placed his hand over hers beneath the table.
“Ignore them,” he said softly. “That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
She glanced at him. The man beside her was calm, gracious, unreadable—but she was beginning to suspect he noticed everything.
Then came his family.
His father, Bishop Vance, was imposing and quiet, a man with presence equal to Cameron’s. He studied Simone for a long moment and said, “She’s not what I expected.”
“She’s exactly what I needed,” Cameron replied coolly.
His stepmother Vanessa was far less subtle.
“And you must be the substitute bride,” she said with a poisonous smile.
Simone met her stare. “And you must be the stepmother everyone warned me about.”
