Chapter 7

Connie's POV

The walk from the law firm to City Hall hadn't taken long.

The process was simpler than I'd expected, too. We handed over our documents, confirmed our information, and signed our names in a few places. Then we went through a brief civil ceremony. The whole thing moved fast.

A few minutes later, we were walking out.

Not far from the entrance, a couple who'd just gotten married were taking photos under a tree. The bride wore a simple white dress and held a small bunch of white roses. The groom stood beside her with one arm around her waist, his other hand smoothing a strand of hair the wind had blown across her face. The photographer stepped back and told them to move closer. She tilted her face up and leaned into him, both of them looking down at the flowers, both of them smiling.

The camera kept clicking.

I stopped without meaning to and watched for a moment longer than I should have.

I'd imagined it before—what it would be like. What I'd wear, what flowers I'd carry, who'd be standing next to me in the photos afterward.

I never pictured it like this.

No ceremony, no guests, no flowers. Just a contract I'd signed with a man I'd known for less than a day, and now I was his wife.

"Want to take some?"

Adrian's voice came from beside me.

I turned. His eyes were still on the couple under the tree.

"What?"

"Photos." He looked at me. "Wedding photos. Want a set?"

I blinked.

"That's not necessary."

The reflex was immediate. "We don't need to waste the time."

The important thing had already been done. Photos weren't part of anything we'd agreed to, and this marriage existed for one reason. Getting out of City Hall together was already strange enough.

Adrian didn't respond.

He pulled out his phone and made a call. It connected quickly.

"I need a photographer." He paused, glancing sideways at me. "For my wife and me. Bring a veil."

I stood there.

His wife.

He'd just said that like it meant something.

I watched his face, waiting for the small tell—a flicker of something put on, a hint that this was a performance for whoever was on the other end. There was nothing. He had one hand in his pocket, his voice even, like he was scheduling a car.

He ended the call and put the phone away.

"You're serious," I said.

"I said so, didn't I?" He looked at me. The corner of his mouth moved, barely. "I want them."

I didn't say anything after that.

I didn't understand it. Three months, that was what the agreement said. Three months and then we'd be done. But he wasn't acting like a man counting down. He was acting like someone who intended to leave evidence.

It occurred to me that Adrian didn't seem to mind treating a temporary arrangement like a real one.

The photographer arrived quickly, carrying a camera and a small bag of equipment, with a white veil in hand.

Adrian took the veil and held it out to me.

"Try it."

I took it. It was light, the edges finished with a thin row of lace. I pinned it to my hair and smoothed it down.

The photographer pointed us toward a spot near the trees.

I positioned myself next to Adrian. My fingers found the fabric of my skirt and held on.

"Relax."

His voice was low.

"I'm not nervous," I said.

He looked at me for a second and didn't argue.

The photographer asked us to move closer. I shifted half a step, my shoulder meeting his arm.

"Closer."

I hesitated. Adrian's hand came to the small of my back, light and unhurried. I could feel the warmth through the cloth.

I glanced up at him.

He was already looking at me—eyes steady, the afternoon light catching the edge of his jaw.

"Look at the camera, Connie."

I faced front.

The shutter clicked.

The photographer moved through several angles without much instruction needed. Adrian seemed to already know what he was doing—when to angle toward me, when to hold still, when the shot was about the two of us and not the backdrop.

When it was over, the photographer turned the screen toward us.

There I was, the veil light around my shoulders, standing beside Adrian. His hand was at my back. His head was turned slightly toward me.

And I was looking up at him.

We looked like a couple who'd just gotten married and meant it.

"That one." Adrian tapped the screen once.

A few minutes later, the photographer sent the photos to both our phones.

I looked at the image for a moment without moving. It was a quick arrangement with a stranger who'd shown up with borrowed equipment, but it looked like something you'd keep.

"Would you mind if I posted these?"

Adrian's question caught me off guard.

I looked up. "The photos?"

He nodded, a faint smile spreading across his face. There was something unmistakably pleased in his expression, almost proud. He glanced down at the picture on his phone, then back at me.

"I'd like to share one in the family group and post it on Instagram." His smile lingered. "I want everyone to know you're my wife."

That surprised me more than it probably should have. He didn't strike me as someone who posted much. If anything, I had the impression he preferred to keep his private life out of circulation, doing only what was necessary.

Then again, necessary was exactly what this was.

The moment this marriage was public, those photos from the hotel hallway had an answer. Not a scandal—just a couple being themselves. That version of the story was worth a lot more to him than the other one.

"Sure," I said.

Then I hesitated for a moment before asking, "Could you send me these photos, too? I'd like to keep them. As a memento."

"Of course."

Only then did it occur to me that I didn't even have his contact information.

I opened WhatsApp, intending to ask him to share his contact with me.

But when I opened my contact list, my thumb stopped.

His name was already there.

I had Adrian's contact.

I already had it.