The Wedding Without Vows
1233 Words
The courthouse didn’t look like the place where lives were supposed to change forever.
It was quiet, almost sterile, with white walls, muted tiles, and a faint hum of air-conditioning. No flowers. No music. No crowd of smiling guests. Just a few people scattered across benches, each absorbed in their own paperwork, their own lives.
And me.
Standing in a simple cream dress that wasn’t meant to be a wedding dress, clutching a small folder that held copies of the contract I had already signed.
I wasn’t nervous.
I told myself that repeatedly, as if saying it enough times would make it true.
This wasn’t a real wedding. There would be no vows, no promises, no forever. Just signatures. Just legality. Just one year of pretending.
Still, my heart beat unevenly.
The door behind me opened, and I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.
Damian Jordan had a presence that filled rooms without effort. Even in a place as dull as this, he stood out, dark suit, perfectly tailored, posture rigid and controlled. He didn’t look like a groom. He looked like a man who was closing a deal.
He stopped beside me, not close enough for comfort, not far enough to ignore.
“You’re on time,” he said.
It wasn’t a compliment. It was just an observation.
“So are you,” I replied softly.
He glanced at me then, his gaze sharp, assessing. His eyes lingered for half a second too long on my dress before moving away.
“That’s acceptable,” he said. “Let’s get this done.”
That phrase followed us as we walked toward the registrar’s office.
Let’s get this done.
No warmth. No hesitation. Just finality.
Inside, the registrar, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looked between us and smiled politely.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are you here for a civil marriage?”
Damian answered before I could. “Yes.”
She nodded, shuffling some papers. “Names?”
“Damian Jordan.”
“Aurora Cole,” I added, my voice steady even as my fingers tightened around the folder.
The registrar glanced at us again, this time with curiosity. Maybe she expected nerves. Or excitement. Or at least a shared glance.
She got none of that.
“Well,” she said gently, “this will only take a few minutes.”
The ceremony, or whatever it was, passed in a blur.
There were words about legality, consent, and rights. Questions we answered with clipped yeses. At one point, the registrar asked us to face each other.
I did.
Damian hesitated for just a fraction of a second before turning to me.
Up close, his expression was unreadable. His jaw was set, his eyes dark and guarded. There was no hatred in them at that moment, just distance.
“Do you, Damian Jordan, consent to this marriage?” the registrar asked.
“I do,” he said immediately.
No pause. No emotion.
“And do you, Aurora Cole?”
“I do,” I said, cutting in before my courage could falter.
The registrar smiled, oblivious to the emptiness of the exchange. “Then, by the authority vested in me.”
She pronounced us husband and wife.
Just like that.
No kiss followed.
Damian didn’t look at me again until we were back in the hallway.
“This changes nothing,” he said flatly. “Remember that.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Good.”
He turned and walked ahead of me, already pulling out his phone, already moving on.
That was how I became Mrs. Damian Jordan.
The drive to his house was silent.
The city blurred past the window as we moved farther away from the courthouse and closer to the part of town I had only ever seen in magazines. Wide streets. Tall gates. Houses hidden behind walls and hedges.
I clasped my hands together in my lap, resisting the urge to fidget.
“You’ll have a room on the east wing,” Damian said suddenly, breaking the silence. “My bedroom is on the west. We won’t cross paths unless necessary.”
“Understood,” I replied.
“There will be staff,” he continued. “You don’t need to interact with them unless you choose to. They know this is a private arrangement.”
Private arrangement.
Another reminder that this wasn’t real.
“And public events?” I asked.
He glanced at me briefly. “I’ll inform you in advance. You’ll attend. You’ll smile. You’ll say as little as possible.”
That stung, though I wasn’t sure why.
“I can do that,” I said.
“I expect you to.”
The car slowed, then stopped.
When I looked up, my breath caught.
The mansion that loomed before us was vast, modern, and intimidating. Glass, stone, steel. It didn’t look like a home. It looked like a fortress.
The gates opened silently, and the car rolled inside.
As soon as we stepped out, a woman approached us, polite, composed.
“Welcome home, Mr. Jordan,” she said. Her gaze flicked at me. “Mrs. Jordan.”
The word felt strange. Heavy.
“Maria is the house manager,” Damian said. “She’ll show you around.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He was already turning away.
“I’ll be in my studies,” he added. “We’ll discuss expectations tonight.”
Then he left.
Just like that.
Maria smiled kindly. “This way, Mrs. Jordan.”
I followed her through long hallways and open spaces, my footsteps echoing softly. Everything was immaculate. Expensive. Untouched.
“This will be your room,” she said, opening the door.
The bedroom was large, elegant, and cold. Neutral tones. Minimal decor. A room designed to be lived in, but not loved.
“Dinner will be served at eight,” Maria said. “If you need anything, please let us know.”
When she left, the silence returned.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands.
I had done it.
I had married a man who didn’t want me, in a house that didn’t feel like mine, under a contract that didn’t allow escape.
I told myself again that it was only one year.
Just one.
Dinner was quiet.
Damian sat at the head of the table, barely touching his food. I sat several seats away, picking at mine.
“This arrangement will work only if you follow the rules,” he said calmly.
“I intend to,” I replied.
“You will not speak to the media.”
“I won’t.”
“You will not attempt to gain my affection.”
I looked up at him then. “That wasn’t part of the contract.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s implied.”
I swallowed. “Fine.”
“And above all,” he said, standing, “you will remember that this marriage exists for appearances only.”
He paused, his gaze hard.
“Don’t forget your place, Aurora.”
The words lingered long after he left the room.
Alone again, I pressed my palm against my chest, feeling the steady beat of my heart.
I didn’t know how I would survive a year like this.
But I would.
Because this wasn’t about love.
It was about endurance.
And I had already signed my name.
- Writer
