The Wrong Groom

Facing the Family

Elena's mother called seventeen times before noon. Elena let every single one go to voicemail.

It wasn't that she didn't want to talk to her — it was that she didn't know what she'd say. *Sorry your daughter married a stranger to avoid public humiliation* didn't exactly roll off the tongue, and she doubted any explanation would make sense to a woman who'd spent the last three years planning centerpieces and seating charts for a wedding that no longer existed.

By early afternoon, the decision was made for her. Her parents arrived at Damian's building unannounced, and Elena heard the low murmur of the doorman's voice through the intercom before Damian's assistant, a sharp, unflappable woman named Priya, buzzed them up without asking.

"You didn't have to let them come," Elena said, smoothing down a blouse she'd borrowed from a boutique Priya had apparently called that morning, as if producing an entire wardrobe on short notice was simply part of the job.

"They're your parents," Damian said, adjusting his cufflinks by the door. "Avoiding them only delays the conversation. Better to have it now, on solid ground, than let it fester."

Her mother swept in first, mascara smudged from what had clearly been hours of crying, and looked between Elena and Damian like she was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Her father followed, quieter, more measured, the same careful expression he wore during difficult board meetings.

"Elena." Her mother's voice cracked on the single syllable. "What happened yesterday? What *is* this?"

"I got married," Elena said simply. "Just not to the person everyone expected."

"You don't even know this man!"

"I know him better than I knew Marcus was sleeping with Sofia," Elena said, and watched her mother flinch at the bluntness of it. "So forgive me if my judgment doesn't feel like the thing we need to interrogate right now."

Her father cleared his throat, glancing at Damian with the wary respect of a man who'd spent three years being quietly, gratefully indebted to him. "Mr. Cole. I imagine you understand why we have questions."

"Of course," Damian said, unbothered. "Ask whatever you need to."

"Is my daughter safe with you?" The question came out rougher than her father probably intended, stripped of business formality for the first time Elena could remember.

"Yes," Damian said, without hesitation. "She'll want for nothing, and no one will pressure her into anything she doesn't choose for herself. That includes staying in this marriage, if it isn't what she wants once the dust settles."

Her mother made a small, strangled sound. "This isn't how marriage is supposed to work."

"No," Elena agreed quietly. "But apparently neither is standing at an altar while your fiancé decides your sister is a better option, so I think we're a bit past 'supposed to' at this point."

Silence settled over the room, heavy and uncomfortable. Her mother sank into the nearest chair, some of the fight draining out of her, replaced by something closer to exhaustion. "Sofia wants to talk to you," she said finally. "She's called me a dozen times asking if you'd see her."

Elena's jaw tightened. "I'm not ready for that conversation."

"I understand," her mother said. "I just — I don't know how to fix this, Elena. Any of it."

"You don't have to fix it," Elena said, softer now, some of her anger giving way to the simple, tired grief underneath it. "You just have to let me handle it my way, even if my way looks strange from the outside."

Her father studied Damian for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes — gratitude, maybe, or the particular wariness of a man who understood exactly how much he owed someone and wasn't entirely sure how to feel about it. "The debt," he said quietly. "Elena mentioned it's been settled."

"It has," Damian confirmed. "Unconditionally. That was never meant to be leverage, and I apologize if it ever felt that way."

Her father exhaled, some invisible weight visibly lifting from his shoulders. "Thank you."

After her parents left — her mother hugging her tightly at the door, whispering *call me, please, whenever you're ready* — Elena sank onto the couch and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

"That went better than I expected," Damian said carefully, settling into the armchair across from her.

"That went like a controlled explosion," Elena corrected. "Which, compared to yesterday, I suppose counts as an improvement."

A faint, unexpected huff of laughter escaped him — the first genuine one she'd heard since the chapel. "Fair point."

She looked at him properly then, in the fading afternoon light, and felt something shift quietly in her chest — not quite trust, not yet, but the first thin thread of it, spun from nothing more than the fact that he'd stood beside her through an impossible morning without once making her feel small for any of it.

"Damian," she said. "Your family. You said it was a longer conversation."

His expression closed slightly, the openness from that morning retreating behind something more guarded. "It is. And it's one I'd rather have when we're both better rested."

Elena wanted to press — wanted to understand what shadow crossed his face every time his own family came up — but something told her patience would serve her better than force, at least for now.

"Okay," she said instead. "Rested, then. But eventually."

"Eventually," he agreed, and something in the quiet certainty of his voice told her he meant it.