Page 151 of Vow to Claim You

His mouth curves. “You know,” he murmurs, “when I married you, I thought you’d be a liability.”

One of my brows rises on its own. “Charming. Truly.”

“A princess from a neutral country,” Aric continues, and I’ve long since accepted that my sarcasm simply slides off Aric. “No experience with our world. More likely to get herself killed than contribute anything useful.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is there a compliment coming, or should I be offended now?”

“I was wrong.” His fingers trail slowly along my jaw. “You aren’t a liability. You’re my greatest asset.”

It’s probably the least romantic compliment ever spoken. From anyone else, I might even have laughed. From Aric, it’s the highest praise he knows how to give. For a man raised by Vidar, that’s almost sacred. That’s his love language.

“I’m proud of you,” he says gently, and that catches me off guard. “I’m proud to have you beside me.” His thumb brushes my cheek now. “And I’m proud to call you my wife.”

I look at him, desperately trying not to let my emotions take over. He’s proud of me for hosting a gala. And all I can think is that he’s just given me the words he probably spent his entire childhood wishing someone would say to him. What those words would mean to the little boy Aric used to be.

But before I can tell him anything, Zahra approaches us.

“The flowers are lovely.” She smiles softly, and we turn to her. She’s beautiful tonight—dark hair swept into an elegant updo, olive skin glowing against a gold gown. “Champagne roses. My grandmother grew them. In Abu Dhabi.”

Alexei appears at her side, and we make small talk—and throughout it, I watch them.

They stand close but never touch. They speak to each other with courtesy but no warmth. There’s a distance between them that feels deliberate, a gap neither seems interested in closing.

An arrangement. Like mine was supposed to be.

But where Aric and I crashed through our walls and found something real on the other side, Alexei and Zahra seem trapped behind theirs. Two people sharing a life without sharing anything. It makes me sad in a way I don’t fully understand.

“We should find our seats,” Zahra says eventually. “It was lovely to see you again, Ayanna.”

They drift away into the crowd.

Dinner is served. Course after course of food I barely taste, because I’m too busy watching the room. Nikos and Serena sit at the head table—Serena stunning in black as always, her hair in a high, wavy ponytail with a few strands framing her face. Two tables over, Eero has somehow seated himself beside Naomi, and whatever he’s saying has my sister laughing into her napkin, his hand resting easy on the back of her chair like it belongs there. But the sight of Naomi laughing is worth it.

Camila, at our table, regales us with a story about a cartel dispute that somehow involves three donkeys and a stolen helicopter, and I find myself laughing genuinely for the first time all night.

Aric, beside me, is suspiciously quiet.

I glance over to find him watching me with that expression again—soft and hungry and something else I can’t name. The one that makes my heart warm.

After dinner, the dancing begins.

Aric leads me onto the floor for the first dance. His hand finds my waist. Mine finds his shoulder. We move together with a fluidity that surprises me every time, and for the length of one song there is no gala, no guest list—just the two of us and the music and the warmth of his hand at my back.

The song ends. Alexei asks Aric for a word, and we step aside as other couples take the floor. Across it, I catch Eero leading Naomi into a clumsy, laughing approximation of a waltz, and despite everything, I smile.

I’m about to head for the champagne when I see Chiara.

She’s standing near the edge of the dance floor, a glass of champagne in her hand. The moment our eyes meet, she walks toward me.

“I think I owe you an apology,” she says gently.

I blink because that’s something I genuinely didn’t see coming. “You don’t⁠—”

“I do.” She takes a deep breath. She looks at Aric across the room, then back at me, and there’s something resigned and almost gentle in it now. “What I said to you in Italy. It was cruel, and it was meant to be, and I’m not proud of it.” She turns the glass in her hand. “I told myself for a long time that if things had been different, he’d have chosen me. That you got the life that should’ve been mine.” Her lips press into a thin line. “But I’ve watched him tonight. All night. The way he tracks you across a room. The way his whole face changes when you laugh.”

Her eyes flick between mine for a moment before her head shakes slightly.

“He never looked at me like that,” she whispers. “Not once. I used to think he was just incapable of it.” She chuckles, but it’s a sad sound. “Turns out he was only ever incapable of it with me.”