The civil ceremony was held Friday afternoon in a skyscraper office in downtown Paris. Rae had always thought of Paris as the city of light with the most beautiful street in the world, full of petite cafes and spectacular cathedrals, but business people strode the city streets, clutching briefcases and yammering on cell phones while taxis vented exhaust and people smoked stinky cigarettes outside, just like any street of any city in the world.
Except that the business people’s suits and dresses seemed more stylish, like all of them used to be runway models.
Rae stepped out of the SUV and dodged across the sidewalk, following Wulf.
A dozen wedding guests spilled out of SUVs. An equal number of security people flanked them. Everyone trotted across the sidewalk and through the doors to the skyscraper. Rae tried to turn and gawk, but Dieter took her elbow gently and hurried her inside.
He whispered, “Photographers get pushy if we linger.”
Inside the magistrate’s office, the security guys formed a wall of black suits across the back of the room.
Rae stood beside Wulf behind Flicka’s chair.
Wulf’s father, the Hereditary Prince Philipp Augustus, stood beside her chair but a step away.
Pierre Grimaldi, the groom—whom Rae had a hard time looking at because his dark eyes, dark hair, and cheekbones were so stunningly gorgeous—sat in a chair three paces away from Flicka. His family, all beautiful people who bore traces of Grace Kelly and money, stood around him.
Rae didn’t fit in with the glistening gold and silver von Hannovers, and she didn’t fit in with the glamorous Grimaldis, either.
When the official photographer raised his camera to document the event, Rae slipped behind Wulf and stood in his shadow.