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She adds a caption.

“My husband.”

Simple. Elegant. So very her.

But she doesn’t stop there. Oh no. She tags me in it.

With the smuggest look on her face, she turns the screen toward me.

“Since your face isn’t exactly visible in the photo, I figured I’d make sure people know who you are. In case there was any lingering confusion,” she says sweetly.

I can’t stop my laugh. Full-on, deep-chested, unapologetic joy.

Because I’m happy. Completely, peacefully, stupidly happy.

I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I need. Everything that matters.

It’s standing right here next to me, wearing my last name like it’s always belonged to her.

Six hours later, we haven’t checked a single message from our families, friends, or even glanced at the news. We haven’t called anyone back. Haven’t responded. Haven’t looked. We didn’t want to.

We’ve spent the day in our own world, wrapped around each other, anchored in slow kisses and quiet laughter.

Talking about what comes next. About her moving to London—which should’ve happened right after the honeymoon—and how neither of us could stand being apart any longer.

I refuse to let her go back to New York. Not even for a few days to pack. So, we decided we’ll call in backup—her brothers, my siblings—and let them handle the logistics. She would work from here, like she has these past few days.

The rest—everything else—could wait. But this—her, right now—couldn’t.

She’d been teasing me for almost two hours—touching me under the table, brushing up against me whenever she walked past, dragging her lips just under my ear before pretending nothing happened.

And now, she’s pinned naked against the floor-to-ceiling window of my living room, with the city glittering somewhere below us—forgotten.

One hand is cupping her jaw, tilting her head back so I can trace a slow, wet path from her earlobe down her neck to her shoulder, biting lightly. The other is between her legs, fingers moving in lazy, torturous circles.

She’s squirming, her breathing ragged, one leg wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer.

Then her hand slips between us and wraps around my cock over my pants, firm and demanding. Her voice is wrecked and breathless when she pleads.

“Nick, please. I need you now.”

I chuckle low in her ear, letting the vibration rumble through my chest, teasing her more.

“What, baby?” I murmur, brushing my lips against her pulse. “What do you want?”

She lets out a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as I circle her clit with my thumb, slow and precise. Her head falls back, resting against the glass, lips parted.

She’s seconds away from taking control—I see it in her eyes—about to guide me inside her when…

Click. Click. Click.

We both freeze for a moment. My head snaps up. Her fingers go still.

We turn—and just beyond the glass, an actual helicopter is circling the building, camera lights blinking. The rotor blades slice through the air in wide, insistent arcs.

„Fuck.”

Sierra panics, ducking down to grab my T-shirt, trying to cover herself.