Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
It was all duty, no desire. But this, this is real and alive.
I keep staring at the door at the end of the path to the villa, unbelievably excited to see her. My heart races faster, and thoughts swirl inside: what if she changes her mind? No, she's mine—Juliet, that name echoing in my head like a secret vow.
“This is something, Blake," one of them says, pausing for a sip with a light laugh. “Marrying your wife again just because you love her so much.”
I ignore him. If only he knew. My eyes instead stay locked on that door, on the path lined with unlit torches as the breeze ruffles the palm fronds overhead.
Finally, she emerges, making her way across the gorgeous beach sand with her dress flowing around her in the wind. It’s so simple yet breathtaking, that vintage ivory dress hugging her curves softly and flaring out lightly as she walks through the sand. The hem brushes the white grains shifting under her steps, the sun catches her hair in loose waves, and a hibiscus is tucked behind her ear.
My heart stops—it literally skips—and the world becomes just her. She smiles, and a sensual rush hits me. She looks like the same woman I married all those years ago, but she's not the same. This is Juliet, the love of my life, and that's who she truly is to me, not the facade. I've vowed to always call her by her real name when we're together. To me, she's Juliet Bessant, but to the world, she’s Carolyn Bessant. It’s our intimate secret, and it’s something that has bonded us more tightly than I could have ever expected.
Freya skips ahead, strewing flowers from her basket. The joy of this scene fills my chest.
Mom is in her chair, smiling softly, approvingly, her eyes shining with quiet happiness. I remember she disapproved of my first marriage. I'm so full of emotion it swells hot in my throat.
Finally, Juliet arrives at my side. Her hand slips into mine, soft and warm, and I can't hold back.
I step forward, hands on her waist, pull her close, and I kiss her so deeply that everyone around erupts into laughter.
“Not yet,” someone yells.
Her lips are soft and warm under mine, tasting faintly of sweet wine, while her body yields with a small gasp.
"Ew, Daddy!” Freya giggles.
The minister clears his throat with a chuckle, and Juliet pulls away with an embarrassed giggle. The minister begins, his voice calm, reciting simple, heartfelt vows. Her hand trembles slightly in mine. There is no hint of hesitation in her voice when she says "I do."
Her voice breathy and thick with emotion, vowing her life to me in words that hit deep—promising love and partnership forever. And always her eyes are locked on mine and shining with tears of joy.
I make my vows, my voice steady but choked: "I do."
I swear to cherish her through everything. Afterwards, we slide the wedding bands onto each other’s fingers. It feels final and perfect. The moment brims with immense joy. She strokes the band on her finger almost in awe.
Finally, it is time for us to kiss.
And I kiss her with all my heart and soul—deep, passionate, her body pressing into mine as our friends and family clap and cheer. I hold her tighter, her hands on my neck, the world fading to just us, her taste, her warmth, the waves crashing like applause. When we break apart, the sunset has bathed everyone in gold light.
We head to the reception—a small, intimate party on the beach. Torches flicker orange against the darkening sky, flanking the long table laden with fresh seafood from the resort's kitchen. Grilled lobster tails drizzled with garlic butter, ceviche bright with lime and cilantro from the day's catch, sliced tropical fruits; mango and papaya, all juicy-sweet. The threat of rain has vanished, and the full sunset covers us as though giving its blessing.
We eat, dance, and laugh all night. The band Juliet hired plays upbeat songs that force you to your feet. I watch as Freya twirls with Mom, her dress spinning, and my friends toast to us with stories and well-wishes. But soon enough, I grow impatient. Watching her dance with friends and family, her gown flowing, laughter lighting her face, is wonderful, but being hard through all if it is hell. Like nothing else in this moment, I ache to touch her, to have her alone with me, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
Eventually, I lean in during a slow song, pulling her close with my hand on her waist, thumb stroking the lace. My voice is low and husky as I whisper in her ear: "How long do you think this will go on for?"
She smiles, reading my eyes, and takes my hand, lacing our fingers tight. "All night, of course," she teases with a laugh, but she spots my impatience and understands. She can feel how hard I am.