You step onto the courthouse steps with Paul’s jacket around your shoulders and his wedding band glinting on your finger. The crowd’s already losing their damn minds—cameras flashing, questions flying like bullets.

Then it happens— “Mrs. McCartney, how does it feel?!”

Your lips part. That name crashes into your chest like a fucking freight train—Mrs. McCartney.

Paul lets out a low whistle, looking at you like you just hung the stars. “Damn, baby… they’re saying it, and it still don’t sound as good as when I whisper it in your ear.”

You turn to the cameras, smirking like the queen you just became. “How does it feel? Like I just married the only man whose last name I’d ever take.”

Paul grins, cocky and possessive as hell, before pressing a kiss to your neck. “Get used to it, world. She’s mine now.”

And the world? They’ve never seen a Mrs. McCartney like you.