The Empty Chair
670 Words
The drive to St. Augustine Cathedral took exactly twenty-three minutes.
Twenty-three minutes of silence.
Twenty-three minutes of pretending everything was normal.
Outside the limousine, crowds gathered behind barricades, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wedding everyone had been talking about for weeks.
Inside...
No one spoke.
Not my mother.
Not my father.
Not even Lily.
The black gown had stolen every conversation.
I looked down at the fabric pooled around my feet.
It was beautiful.
Painfully beautiful.
Whoever designed it had poured their soul into every stitch.
Which only made one question louder.
Why black?
The limousine came to a smooth stop.
The chauffeur opened my door.
Instantly...
Camera flashes exploded.
Reporters shouted my name.
"Miss Laurent!"
"This way!"
"One picture!"
I forced myself to smile.
It felt like my face belonged to someone else.
Dad offered me his arm.
"You'll be fine," he whispered.
I wasn't sure whether he was trying to convince me...
Or himself.
The cathedral looked exactly as I'd imagined.
White roses lined the entrance.
Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead.
Soft violin music floated through the air.
Everything was elegant.
Everything was perfect.
Everything...
Except me.
As I stepped onto the white aisle, conversations stopped.
Every head turned.
Every eye widened.
A woman covered her mouth.
Someone whispered,
"Is the bride... wearing black?"
Another voice answered,
"Maybe it's some billionaire tradition."
"No."
"I've never seen anything like this."
Each whisper landed like another stone on my chest.
I kept walking.
One step.
Then another.
If I stopped now...
My family's company would disappear.
If I ran...
My father would lose everything.
So I walked.
Even when every instinct screamed at me to turn around.
Then I saw it.
The groom's chair.
Empty.
No tuxedo.
No groom.
No smile waiting for me.
Just...
A single black rose resting neatly on the white cushion.
It looked almost deliberate.
Like someone wanted it to be noticed.
A ripple of murmurs swept through the cathedral.
"The groom isn't here."
"Has he been delayed?"
"This can't be happening."
The priest glanced anxiously toward the entrance.
Then toward Ethan Cole.
"Mr. Cole..." he said quietly.
"Should we wait for Mr. Knight?"
Ethan checked the time on his watch.
His expression never changed.
"No."
The single word echoed through the cathedral.
The priest blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Mr. Knight will not be attending today's ceremony."
A collective gasp filled the room.
My father's grip tightened around my arm.
"What do you mean he won't be attending?" he demanded.
"This is his wedding!"
Ethan met his gaze without the slightest hint of emotion.
"Mr. Knight does not break his promises. The wedding must go as planned."
He reached into a black leather briefcase.
Every eye followed his movements.
He withdrew a cream-colored envelope sealed with black wax.
My pulse quickened.
The silence became unbearable.
Ethan broke the seal.
Removed a document.
Then handed it to the priest.
The priest stared.
His brows knitted together in confusion.
"But..."
He looked up.
"It's already signed."
A murmur spread through the guests like wildfire.
Signed?
I took an involuntary step forward.
There, at the bottom of the marriage certificate, was an elegant signature.
Alexander Knight.
The ink looked fresh.
As though he had signed it only hours ago.
The priest looked uncertain.
"I've... never performed a wedding like this before."
Ethan calmly produced a fountain pen.
He walked toward me.
Stopped just close enough for only me to hear.
"Mr. Knight is waiting for his wife."
My heart skipped.
Waiting?
Where?
Before I could ask, Ethan extended the pen toward me.
"Miss Laurent..."
His voice remained perfectly calm.
"The only signature missing..."
His eyes flickered briefly to the black rose on the empty chair.
"...is yours."
I looked at the empty seat.
At the single black rose.
At Alexander Knight's signature.
For the first time...
I realized I wasn't marrying a man.
I was stepping into a game whose rules I didn't understand.
I took the pen.
And somehow...
That felt far more terrifying than saying, I do.
- Writer
