Bride by Default

(Sienna)

My sister's wedding collapsed because of me.

Two hundred guests watched it happen.

The priest was halfway through the vows when the groom stopped the ceremony, walked down the aisle…

…and chose the wrong woman.

Me.

The worst part wasn't that he chose me.

The worst part was that six weeks earlier I had ridden him in a hotel bed attached to Heathrow Terminal Five.

Hard.

Twice.

Possibly three times.

I stopped in the doorway of St. Bartholomew's Cathedral and stared down the length of the aisle.

The organ was playing something slow and reverent. Sunlight spilled through stained glass windows. Two hundred guests turned politely toward the entrance as I slipped inside late and breathless, smoothing the creases from the navy dress I had changed into in a Singapore airport bathroom.

None of them mattered.

Because at the altar, standing tall in a morning suit, dark hair precisely arranged, shoulders broad and unmistakable—

Was him.

My brain stalled.

My feet faltered.

No.

That wasn't possible.

He stood with the same contained stillness I remembered from the airport lounge, hands loosely clasped in front of him, jaw shadowed with faint stubble.

I knew that mouth.

The sound he made when he buried himself deep inside me.

My body recognized him instantly.

My brain refused to follow.

I finally forced my feet to carry me down the side aisle. I slipped into the front pew beside my mother with what I hoped looked like composure instead of impending collapse.

"You made it," my mother whispered, squeezing my arm.

I nodded faintly.

At the altar, the groom lifted his head.

His gaze swept the room. Unhurried. Deliberate.

Then it found me.

Everything inside me went perfectly still.

Recognition flickered across his face.

The kind that said he hadn't forgotten me for a single second.

A strange heat crawled up the back of my neck.

Six weeks ago he'd had his hands in my hair and his mouth at my throat, his voice low and intent, telling me exactly what he planned to do once that hotel room door closed.

And I had let him.

God, I had more than let him.

Now he was standing at the altar of my sister's wedding, looking at me like two hundred witnesses didn't exist.

My fingers tightened around the wedding program.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was misreading a glance across a cathedral, the kind of thing sleep deprivation and transatlantic guilt did to a person.

But the way his gaze held mine: steady, certain, entirely without apology, suggested otherwise.

My stomach tightened.

We hadn't exchanged names. That had been part of the reckless appeal.

Two strangers in an airport lounge with an immediate attraction and five unexpected hours to fill.

No questions.

No consequences.

Just whiskey, heat, and a hotel room upstairs where nothing needed to mean anything.

And now—

My eyes drifted to the wedding program in my hands.

The printed names snapped into focus.

Celeste Hartwell and Adrian Swift.

The name hit me like a delayed explosion.

Adrian Swift.

Billionaire airline magnate. The name appeared in headlines. In boardroom gossip. In my father's voice last Christmas, talking about the merger that would save Hartwell Aviation.

My sister's fiancé.

Oh God. You have got to be kidding me.

My lungs forgot how to work.

I knew she was marrying Adrian Swift. I just didn't know what he looked like.

Across the cathedral, he watched the exact moment the realization landed.

His expression tightened slightly.

He knew.

Six weeks ago, when his hands had spread my thighs with such careful attention, learning exactly what undid me—

Had he known then?

Please. Please let the answer be no.

The cathedral doors opened behind us.

The room shifted.

Everyone turned.

My sister appeared at the end of the aisle on my father's arm, radiant in ivory silk and cathedral-length lace.

Celeste Hartwell had been preparing for this wedding since she was seventeen. She looked luminous. She looked happy. She looked like someone about to receive everything she'd ever wanted.

The organ swelled as she began walking down the aisle.

Adrian Swift turned toward her.

He smiled.

He watched her approach.

For exactly the amount of time politeness required.

Then his gaze moved back to me.

Forty feet of marble and stained light separated us.

Forty feet, and one catastrophic night I couldn't take back.

His expression didn't shift. But his focus did. It narrowed, sharpened and settled into something that made my pulse stutter.

I knew that look.

I had seen it before, in the dim glow of a bedside lamp, right before he pushed inside me for the first time.

Celeste reached the altar.

My father placed her hand in Adrian's.

The officiant cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—"

Adrian's grip tightened around Celeste's fingers.

But his eyes never left mine.

A strange silence spread through my chest. The kind that arrives right before something irreversible happens.

Celeste turned toward him with a radiant smile.

"Adrian," she whispered softly, "are you ready?"

He looked at her.

Then he looked back at me.

And something in his expression settled into place.

Certainty. Absolute, terrifying certainty.

The officiant smiled warmly.

"Adrian Swift, do you take Celeste Hartwell to be your lawfully wedded wife—"