Melinda stood in front of the tall mirror, her fingers tugging nervously at the silk collar of her blouse. The courthouse was quiet that morning, almost eerily so. The sun filtered through the high windows like a silent witness to the union about to take place not one forged in love, but necessity, secrecy… and the ache of unspoken history.
James stood beside her, impeccably dressed in a dark charcoal suit that hugged his form with authority. His tie was perfectly knotted, his face unreadable. But his eyes those sharp grey eyes flicked toward her every few seconds, as though trying to gauge what lay behind her practiced calm.
The marriage certificate lay between them on the mahogany table, crisp and accusing.
“This isn’t a real marriage,” Melinda said quietly, her voice barely a whisper
