Forced marriage: Mr Flynn darling wife

CELESTE’S POV The gentle rustle of my gown brushing against the polished floor echoed in my ears as I walked to the venue of my wedding ceremony. My overflowing white dress, heavy with intricate lace and shimmering beads, trailed behind me, held up by bridesmaids I barely knew. The exterior of the grand hall reeked of wealth, so opulent it felt suffocating. It made me wonder, not for the first time, what the inside would look like. But none of it mattered to me. I had refused to involve myself in any of the preparations—not out of disinterest, but in a silent protest. I had begged Grampa countless times to reconsider this wedding, to call it off before it was too late. Each time, his reply was the same: "This alliance is important for the family. The Flynns are powerful allies." And so, here I was, about to marry Luca Flynn—the only son of the Flynn family. On the MC's cue, I plastered a practiced smile on my face and stepped into the hall. Applause erupted, a wave of sound that washed over me without warmth. My eyes swept across the crowd: cousins I hadn’t seen in years, distant relatives, family friends, colleagues and friends who would later claim to have always supported me. For a fleeting moment, I wished my parents were alive to see this. Even if I'm not happy about all this, I yearned for their presence at this once-in-a-lifetime moment. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, determined not to let my tears ruin the makeup that had taken hours to perfect. --- "Just a little more,” the makeup artist had said, her voice soft but firm. The morning had been a whirlwind of brushes and powders, her skilled hands painting an image I barely recognized. Grampa never let me wear makeup— “You're beautiful enough without it,” he’d say. But today, he’d hired an artist by name and reputation. A statement of how serious this day was to him. I sighed, already exhausted, as three more people fussed over my gown, tugging and making unnoticeable adjustments I couldn't fathom. Their touch made my skin crawl. I wanted to scream, to tell them to stop everything, but I knew that was impossible. The memory of the pre-wedding photoshoot flooded. Luca had shown up late, looking as detached as ever. He refused to smile, not even a polite one, even when the photographer encouraged us to pose like lovers. His words had stung more than the coldness in his eyes: “Are you here to take photos, or to play the clown?” I had forced a smile, pretending his sharp tone hadn’t pierced me. A tear had slipped down my cheek, smudging my makeup and forcing us to start over. After that, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry again. --- The present snapped back into focus as I entered the hall. My eyes met Grampa’s across the room, his smile wide and satisfied. Despite myself, I returned it, only to quickly look away, the smile slipping into a frown. I walked the length of the aisle, my steps steady but hesitant, and bowed in front of the pastor. The priest's voice cut through the murmurs, drawing the attention of the crowd. “Now we shall begin,” he announced, his tone solemn. “As we await the groom.” A ripple of confusion washed over the room. I could hear the subtle shifting in seats, the whispers turning from polite murmurs to bolder speculations. My heartbeat pounded in my chest, each second stretching into an eternity. No one moved, least of all me, as I stood at the front, rooted in place like a lone figure carved from stone. In my entire life, I’d never heard of a wedding where the bride stood waiting at the altar, but here I was, standing in front of the priest, waiting for my Husband To Be. Each moment stretched on unbearably, and I could feel the audience’s discomfort growing alongside my own. Some guests coughed awkwardly; others whispered more openly. I clenched my hands, forcing myself to stay composed, to ignore the sting of embarrassment creeping up my neck. The weight of the crowd's eyes bore down on me, their curiosity transforming into pity. I could feel it, the embarrassment creeping up my neck, coloring my cheeks despite the powder meant to hide any imperfections. My eyes found Grampa in the first row, his smile strained and eyes narrowed with worry. I watched as he rose from his seat, muttering hurried apologies to the guests nearby, and made his way toward the exit. A part of me longed to shout after him, to ask what was happening, but I knew I couldn’t. All I could do was keep my head held high and wait. I clasped my shaking hands in front of me, trying to ignore the stinging prickle in my eyes. Don’t cry. You cannot cry, I told myself. I’d already promised I wouldn’t let my makeup be ruined again. Seconds turned into minutes. My breathing quickened, matching the tempo of the whispers now growing louder. Guests were beginning to shift uncomfortably, some even leaned over to speak behind raised hands. Every look directed at me felt like a dagger, each sympathetic smile an accusation. I tried to draw strength from somewhere, but it felt like grasping at smoke. And then, the doors at the far end of the hall opened. A collective hush fell over the room as every head turned. I couldn’t help but hold my breath, my pulse thundering in my ears as I waited to see who would step through.