Ella
When we arrive at the edge of the forest where the ceremony is set to begin, I’m wearing a shimmering pearl-colored dress, which looks as if it’s been spun from pure moonlight. Its straps are so thin it doesn’t seem like they should be strong enough to hold up the flowing fabric, which plunges between my breasts, hugs my waist and then cascades out into a wide skirt with a graceful train. It’s completely inappropriate for the cold weather, but a cape of plush black furs billows down my back and Sinclair’s cozy heat is warming my left side. My shoulders are heavy with the weight of his arm, and I feel thankful the rough forest terrain made wearing high heels impossible.
We move through the crowds of reporters and admirers, pausing for photos and handshakes but not answering any ques
