I didn’t plan to say it. It just tore out of me as the priest asked if anyone objected. "I’m already married." All heads swiveled. Even the groom looked stunned. Then I pointed to the man huddled near the chapel doors—dirty coat, unshaven jaw, eyes like storm clouds. "Him. That’s my husband."

He stood slowly, every movement deliberate, like a predator deciding whether to play dead or strike. Rain dripped from his hair as he walked toward me, and something in the way the guests flinched told me I’d made a terrible mistake. Or a brilliant one.

When he reached me, he didn’t take my hand. He cupped my face, voice low enough that only I could hear. "You have no idea what you’ve just done, Myra." Then, louder: "I’ve missed you, darling." His scent—cedar and danger—flooded my senses. "Now smile for our families."

Behind us, chairs scraped as armed men moved in. In front, the priest stammered. And between my ribs, my heart hammered: Who is this man? And can I survive pretending to love him?