The courthouse was a sterile, grey building that smelled of old paper and floor wax. There were no flowers, no music, no guests. Just a small room with a mahogany desk and a clerk who looked like he had seen too many things to care anymore.
Victor stood beside Libby, his hand resting on the small of her back. Through the thin silk of the dress, his palm felt like a brand. He looked perfectly composed, the picture of a man about to enter a happy union, but Libby could feel the tension radiating from him—a coiled spring waiting for any sign of resistance.
The clerk cleared his throat, shuffling papers. "Names, please."
"Victor Blackwood," he said, his voice clear and steady. "And Libby Thomas."
The clerk nodded, scribbling something down. "Do you, Victor Blackwood, take Libby Thomas to
