Chapter 11 - The Wedding That Wasn’t
1005 Words
I wake before the alarms.
My body knows something is wrong long before my mind catches up. My heart is already racing when I open my eyes, the room washed in pale morning light that feels too bright, too exposing. For a moment, I forget where I am, this unfamiliar bedroom, this borrowed calm, and then memory slams into place.
Today.
I lie still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of movement elsewhere in the building. Voices. Footsteps. The distant hum of generators outside. Everything has been orchestrated to run without me having to decide anything.
That’s the point.
A knock sounds at the door before I’ve even sat up.
“Rowan?” Charlotte’s voice. She was Ezra’s assistant. I had met her just the day before. “They’re ready when you are.”
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, my feet sinking into carpet so soft it feels obscene. Somewhere downstairs, reporters are already gathering, cameras poised like predators waiting for motion.
There were no engagement photos. No romantic build-up. No glossy executives teasing the love story.
The dress waits for me on its hanger.
Not the first one, the ivory silk Lucien chose, but another, simpler, sharper. Still expensive. Still beautiful. But dialled back. A statement rather than a fantasy.
I let the stylist guide me into it without protest. Hands adjust fabric. Pins bite briefly at my skin. My hair is swept back neatly. Make-up is applied lightly, as if to suggest I’m untouched by what’s happening.
I barely recognise the woman in the mirror.
She looks composed. Controlled. Untouchable.
I feel none of those things.
“Any requests?” the stylist asks softly.
I shake my head.
By the time I’m ready, the flat is no longer empty. It’s filled with people who know my measurements, who murmur in low voices as they pass, careful not to disturb the calm.
Ezra arrives ten minutes before we’re due to leave.
There’s no announcement. No dramatic entrance. He’s simply there when I turn from the mirror, dressed in a dark suit that fits him perfectly.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
He looks different today. Not polished like Lucien used to be, something looser, darker. His hair falls forward slightly, untamed. His expression is composed, but his jaw is set, as if braced.
“Are you alright?” He asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard.
“Yes,” I lie.
He studies my face for a beat longer than necessary, then nods.
“Good,” he says. “We’ll keep it simple.”
Simple.
Outside, chaos waits.
The venue is smaller than originally planned, a private registry office to be discreet. Of course that didn’t work, however. Security is tight. Cars pull up under covered awnings. The air hums with anticipation and confusion.
As soon as I step out of the building, cameras erupt.
Flashes burst like lightning, blinding and relentless. My name is shouted from every direction.
“Rowan! Over here!”
“Is this a rebound wedding?”
“Did Lucien approve this?”
“Are you pregnant?”
Ezra’s hand closes around mine, not possessive, not performative. Grounding. A point of contact amid the noise.
“Eyes forward,” he murmurs.
We walk.
Inside, the noise drops away abruptly, replaced by a hush that feels almost reverent. The guests are few. Carefully selected. Friends of the family who have agreed to attend on short notice, curiosity thinly veiled behind polite smiles.
Eleanor Blackwood sits in the front row.
She doesn’t look surprised.
Her gaze flicks over me once, measured, assessing, before settling back into something like approval. As if this outcome makes sense to her.
I feel a flicker of anger, sharp and brief.
Then the registrar begins to speak.
The words blur together, I repeat what I’m told to repeat. My voice doesn’t shake. My hands stay steady.
Ezra’s voice is low when he answers, calm and unwavering.
When he looks at me, there is no romance in his expression, but there is intent. Presence. He is here in a way Lucien never was.
The rings are exchanged. Cool metal against skin.
When the registrar declares us married, the silence breaks into polite applause. The sound feels distant, like it’s happening in another room.
It’s done.
Outside, the world explodes again.
I can practically feel the headlines already updating as we step back into the daylight.
BLACKWOOD COUSIN STEPS IN AT ELEVENTH HOUR
FROM JILTED FIANCÉE TO BRIDE
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED BEHIND CLOSED DOORS?
Ezra doesn’t stop walking.
He leads me to the car, shielding me with his body as best he can, answering nothing, offering no statement. I keep my face neutral, my spine straight.
I will not give them anything.
Inside the car, the door shuts and the noise drops to a muffled roar.
For the first time all day, I breathe.
Ezra releases my hand slowly, as if making sure I don’t lose balance without it.
“You did well,” he says.
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I didn’t run if that’s what you mean.”
“That counts.”
I look down at my left hand. The ring catches the light, unfamiliar and heavy.
“I’m married,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” Ezra replies. “You are.”
The word doesn’t feel real yet. It feels like a role I’ve stepped into rather than a truth I inhabit.
The car pulls away, leaving the reporters behind, though I know they’ll follow the story wherever it goes next.
As we drive, my phone buzzes incessantly in my bag. Messages. Notifications. The world demanding action.
I don’t look.
Instead, I watch the city pass by through the tinted window and let the weight of the moment settle.
The world may be confused. It may be vicious. It may decide I’m reckless, calculated, desperate.
Let it.
What they won’t see, what they can’t, is the quiet resolve threading through my chest.
- Writer
