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Mrs Mcneill

No one doubted Sophie could marry again.

They just never imagined she’d do it like this.

The hush inside Westminster Abbey was electric. Velvet, candlelight, and scandal hung in the air like perfume. And then… the music changed.

Sophie appeared at the end of the aisle.

Red hair twisted into something ancient and wild. A whisper-thin veil. A slit too high, heels too sharp. And that look in her eye, the one that said: I do what I want, and I do it in heels.

Cesar, tall and composed beside her, offered his arm.
“You sure about this?”

She smirked. “No. That’s why it’s exciting.”

Up ahead, Omar stood waiting. Dark, serious, deliciously untouchable except by her. His jaw clenched as he watched her walk, like he was remembering exactly how she tasted.

Michelle leaned in to Tomás.
“She’s walking like the aisle is her runway.”

“It is,” he murmured. “And the reception is probably rated R.”

Dulce blinked. “She looks like sin at a royal banquet.”

At the altar, Sophie didn’t wait for the priest to speak.

“Let’s not pretend this is a fairytale.”

Omar grinned. “Good. Because I came for something wilder.”

Their vows were murmured close, words just for each other. Her hand slid into his as if she owned him. His thumb brushed her knuckles like a secret.

The kiss? Long. Bold. Shameless.

As they turned to leave, Sophie paused. She let her hand trail slowly down Omar’s chest claiming him in full view then turned her head just slightly.

Cesar gave a slow, knowing nod. No smirk, no wink just quiet satisfaction. This time, her replacement dad was only giving her away. Which, to be fair, was more than could be said about her last wedding day… and Andreas.

Tomás leaned in, whispering without moving his lips.
“You think she’ll behave at the reception?”

Michelle’s eyes narrowed.
“Define behave.”

Sophie smirked:

“For richer, for poorer, in public or on camera those were the vows, right?