It was not the illusion that was important. Not the silvered moonlight. Not the beauty or the fantasy. All that mattered was the strength of the bond that had brought two such disparate people together, despite all the things that conspired to keep them apart.
How well that applied to the illusion of her own marriage. All her life she had wanted the fantasy. A man who trembled when he touched her. A man whose eyes looked at her with a love so strong it would colour whatever he saw—age or imperfection—with beauty. A man who would always be there, holding her hand through the darkest hour of any night.
Reality and illusion. And if she could have only one...
