When the photos came in, I wasn't prepared.
I knew they would be good. I mean, the photographer was brilliant. But what I didn't expect was how breathtaking they would turn out. Every shot looked like it belonged in a magazine spread, but more than that, it looked real. Every smile, every glance, every small touch between Jace and me carried a truth that no editing could create.
The photos told a story. Our story of love, victory and triumph.
The girl in white wasn't the trembling version of me from four years ago, forced into a marriage she barely understood. She was radiant, soft, alive. And the man beside her , my husband, looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
When I opened the file the photographer sent, I must've stared at it for a full minute before whispering, "Oh my God."
Jace walked in from his study just then, phone in hand, and stopped mid-step when he saw my face. "What's wrong?"
I shook my head quickly. "Nothing. Just— come look."
