But I don’t anymore.

She has her path and I have mine.

I don’t want to hate her either.

And I don’t think she hates me. In fact, I see regret in her eyes. She bows her head in shame and wrings her hands as she presses her phone to her chest. “Rachel, I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.” She looks contrite. “I saw him walk past.” She signals. “You’re lucky.” I don’t reply, and she adds, as if to make me feel better, “So is he.”

“You still need to leave, Victoria.”

There seems to be a battle inside her. The professional versus the human being. “I’ll go because I owe you one. But I’ll see you at the christening of your firstborn, or maybe sooner.”

I smile at her naïveté. This is the last time she slips by me. “I don’t think so,” I say.

She smiles a little and walks away. And I watch her take my past with her, all of it.

I have a future to look forward to.

I have a storm to catch.

A leap to make.

A man to love.

A Sin to take.

And I’ve never looked forward to something in my life like I look forward to

MALCOLM

KYLE

PRESTON

LOGAN

SAINT.

WEDDING

There’s only one chapel on the island, and it’s barely a year old. When the original one suffered a fire, one of the billionaires who frequently vacations here had a new one made. The architecture is exquisite, with thick columns and high arches, old mosaics gracing the windows, brought here from antiques shops and auction blocks from across the world. The altar is all white marble, with sculptures hiding in strategically positioned nooks, as well as frescoes on the painted ceiling, reminiscent of Michelangelo.

Today the chapel feels like a garden.

I know this because I came to look at it yesterday, and I know that a waterfall of white orchids hangs over the altar. I know that the aisle rows are dripping with more orchids that trail down to the long red carpet. I know that there are thousands of warmly lit candles awaiting behind the massive antique doors, and that the chorus is accompanied by one of Chicago’s finest orchestras, all flown down here for the wedding.

I can’t breathe in this dress. I CAN’T BREATHE knowing that he’s waiting for me. Behind these doors. Down that freshly cleaned, red-carpeted aisle. Up on the luminous white marble altar and under the hanging orchids. My groom .

Every part of me shakes. Quakes. Aches .

Sandy and Valentine waited outside, and they’re helping Gina and Mom spread out my veil to make sure I look perfect.

Perfect.

Please, please, god, let me look perfect.

We will only marry once. He will only watch me once. And I’m burning for him to burn for me like I do him.

There are days meant to be perfect in your life. So ethereal and mystical. I hadn’t dared imagine this one, though. First, because I didn’t want it . . . never knew I wanted it. Next, because I wanted it so very much.

And now the day is upon me and upon him.

My hair falls behind me, a plain veil covering my face, my wedding dress fitting like it had been made for me. Outside the wind is warm and perfect. The cathedral is bathed in white. The doors swing open. I hear the chorus start.

The air rushes through me, electric, excited, as alive as I feel.

I watch my friends walk before me. They look like exotic birds from overseas. I’m in white, my favorite color. It didn’t used to be my favorite, until I met him. He is so dark, and makes me feel so bright and light in return. The air between us solidifies. I see him. He sees me.

His eyes laser through the thin veil, and I feel charged by green fire. Green fire flowing in my veins. Green fire fiery in my stomach.

And then, he smiles.

Kaboom goes my heart.

I have no fears.

No regrets.

Only a rush of happiness so pure, it hurts in my chest. Tears of emotion start filling my eyes; my mother’s arm is trembling in mine. And I realize she has a trail of tears, happy tears to match the smile on her face.

Through my tears I keep looking ahead to the black, tall, regal shape of my groom. Watching me, intent, his hands clasped before him, his shoulders straight, his legs braced apart, as I walk up.

The future father of all my little Saints, though I’m prepared for devils, the whole lot of them.

And walking up to him feels like the rightest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I don’t want him to see me cry again.

I want to wipe my tears, but I’m afraid to snag the veil. I will tell him, later, that I’m crying because I’m happy. He makes me so happy. My chest swells as we approach; he becomes larger, darker, clearer to my eyes, and oh so very and extremely perfect.

I’m hazy with anticipation when Mom hands me over to Saint.

He takes my hand in his warm, strong grip, and his smile never leaves his face, not for a second.

In a rush, heat eats up my body.

He’s staring at me through my veil, his face blurry through the material. Slowly he lifts the lace, and a look like summer lightning brightens his eyes when he sees me. He sees my tears then, and his gaze fills with an endless tenderness that blooms in my heart. He dries me slowly with his thumbs, and I take one of his big hands in mine and kiss the center of his palm, my kiss saying that he is the center of my world now.

His answer is exquisite.

One sole ghost kiss. Right on the corner of my mouth, where my smile goes, then he draws me up to his side, and I follow him up the two steps, breathing as he breathes, moving as he moves, onto the altar.

Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. My first everything. The man who woke me up. The man who made my world spin faster, the wind feel colder, grapes taste sweeter than ever. Amplified all my senses and left me alive, breathing —so when I messed up, I felt it more than ever.