Georgia slides over me and steps out of the limo. She hightails it to the stairs.

"Georgia," I call after her, close on her heels and trying not to step on her train.

She holds her dress and marches up the staircase.

"Georgia," I repeat, reaching for her arm.

"Don't touch me!" she seethes, spinning on the top step. Her blue eyes glisten.

My heart feels like it's being squeezed by a pair of pliers. I've never seen her so angry, except after what I did to her by the pool the first night we got to the ranch. I'm unsure what's happening or causing her to be so upset, but I hold my hands in the air, yielding. "Okay."

She drills her glare into me further, then shakes her head. She turns back and nods to the flight attendant, Carmine. She goes directly to the bedroom and shuts the door.

I step past Carmine and open the door, trying again, "Georgia—"

"Get out, Sebastian," she cries out.

"I don't understand what's going on right now," I admit.

She laughs, and a tear falls down her cheek. "How convenient for you."

"Sunshine—"

"I said to get out, unless you can be honest with me," she demands.

I stare at her for a moment, feeling hollow. She's the most beautiful bride I've ever seen, and I don't know why I'm tongue-tied.

She's my bride.

I've hurt her.

I need to tell her how I feel about her.

I open my mouth, but the coward in me wins. I snap my mouth shut.

She looks at me as if I'm pathetic.

I wish I could say I wasn't, but it's an appropriate word to describe how I feel. I decide to give her space and offer, "When you're ready to talk about whatever this is, I'll be here."

She laughs, wiping at more tears. "You can talk to me when you're ready to be honest."

"How have I not been honest?" I question, but as I say the words, I know I'm lying to her and myself.

She scoffs. "Figure it out. Now, get out." She squeezes her eyes shut and turns away.

Defeated, I shut the door and plop down on a seat.

"Mr. Cartwright, would you or Mrs. Cartwright like a drink?" Carmine asks.

Mrs. Cartwright.

Hearing Georgia called that fills me with pleasure and sadness.

How is it my wife is so pissed at me on our wedding night?

Because I'm a heartless asshole.

"No, thank you," I answer.

Carmine smiles. "Jeffry said we're ready to take off."

"Very well," I reply.

Carmine nods and then goes to the front of the plane.

Within minutes, we're in the air. I glance out the window, staring at the fading lights until there's nothing but blackness. And that's how I feel right now—dark, void of any light.

Georgia's light.

Why can't I tell her how I feel?

What exactly do I feel?