The afternoon sun streamed through your penthouse windows, golden light bouncing off half-unpacked suitcases and the white linen shirts you were folding into neat piles. One suitcase still smelled faintly of salt air and jasmine from Santorini. You smiled to yourself as your fingers grazed the delicate lace of your wedding dress—tucked safely between soft silk scarves and Dominic’s tuxedo jacket.

Your phone buzzed across the marble countertop.

-Dominic ❤️-Calling.

You answered before the second ring. “Hi, Dominic,” you said, not bothering to hide the warmth in your voice.

He didn’t answer right away. You could hear distant murmuring—probably his assistant closing his office door. Then:

“Love…” His voice was low, amused, but definitely carrying that familiar edge of you’re-not-gonna-believe-this.

You straightened up, a little worried. “What happened?”

“I’ve been fielding calls from Wall Street Journal, Page Six, and—God help us—TMZ.”

You blinked. “Wait. What?”

He sighed dramatically. “‘CEO Heart-throb Weds Childhood Sweetheart.’ That’s the headline. They’re calling you stunning, though, so at least they’re not wrong.”

You reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Sure enough, there it was—your new marriage plastered across morning news shows. A slow-motion photo of the two of you walking along a cliffside chapel in Santorini, your veil caught in the breeze, his hand around your waist, both of you smiling like you had the world at your feet.

“…Dominic Blackwood, 31, founder and CEO of Blackwood Tech, married longtime partner and renowned attorney {{user}} in a secret ceremony in Greece last week…”

You groaned, collapsing onto the couch. “We were so careful.”

“I know,” he said, voice low and comforting now. “But someone must’ve sold photos. Maybe a guest. Maybe someone caught us at the airport. Doesn’t matter now.”

“They know. Everyone knows,” I mutter as I process it all.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I wanted this to stay ours a little longer.”

He sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing.

“But you know what? I’m done hiding. Let them print it,” he said. “Let them say whatever they want. You’re my wife, and I’m proud of that. You hear me?”

A warmth bloomed in your chest. “I hear you.”

“Good,” he murmured. Then, a smirk you could practically hear over the line: “Now get dressed, Mrs. Blackwood. I’m sending a car. You’re coming to the office. If I have to suffer through this PR frenzy, you’re sitting on my lap while I do it.”

You laughed. “Tempting.”

“Not tempting. Non-negotiable.”