Rejected, then desired by the tycoon

I press my palm against the cool glass of the courthouse door, my fingers trembling around the handle. The autumn wind tugs at the edges of my dress, but I force myself not to shiver. Today is presumed to be the beginning of “happily ever after.” In winks, I’ll be Mrs. Blackwood. But my heart drums with every doubt I’ve tried to silence. Inside, the waiting room hums with nervous couples and solemn witnesses. A bouquet of daisies—already wilting—lies heavy in my hands. I swallowed petals this sunrise for courage, but all I taste is bitter regret. “Ms. Rose?” The clerk’s voice snaps me back. My breath catches in my throat, and I turn to meet his mannerly nod. Three relinquish the hallway, and Ethan Blackwood stands against the marble wall. Actually from a distance, I feel his gaze. He looks immaculate in a charcoal suit that cost more than my entire wardrobe. His hair is slicked back, his jaw set like stone. My cheeks burn. I grip my bouquet tighter. He doesn’t smile. He barely raises his eyes. I swallow. “Ethan,” I whisper. He tilts his head once—so slight it could be polite, but I know better. He’s here because he has to be. Because of that late-night phone call, the whispered plea, the promise we made in a moment of panic. He saved my reputation; I saved his. And now we stand on the edge of something neither of us meant to become. We enter the small, fluorescent-lit chamber together. The registrar clears his throat. “Please state your names and repeat after me.” “I, Emilia Rose Blackwood…” My voice quivers, but I force it steady. I glimpse at Ethan. He doesn’t look at me—he watches the clerk like a recipient of bad news. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the clerk asks, tone flat. Ethan’s voice is estimated and snipped. “I do.” One “I do,” and I think my ribs might c***k from the hope inside me. But then— The clerk asks, “Do you take this man…?” I do, I think, but before I can speak, I see Ethan’s fingers tighten around his lapel. He’s cold; distant. He sounds as though he’s reciting a contract. As though he’d rather be anywhere but here. “I do.” The clerk smiles, stamps the manuscript, and announces, “Congratulations, you’re married.” He steps aside. I turn to him, anticipating something—relief, warmth, maybe actually a glance of regret. Anything. But he simply tucks his hands into his pockets and studies the floor. My voice is small. “Ethan?” He looks up. His eyes are so dark, I can’t tell if I’m reading dissatisfaction or indifference. He straightens, and tugs on his tie. “What now?” My chest constricts. “Now we—” “It’s over.” His words s***h through the air. “You’re not good enough for me. This…” He gestures between us as if our vows were a stain he wants to wipe away. “This was a mistake.” Time stops. My heart splinters in two, and for a moment, the only sound is my ragged breath. The daisies droop in my hand as if they understand what just transpired. I taste tears but refuse to let them fall. I’m about to argue, to beg, but the words choke in my throat. Instead, I turn. Every step away from him feels like walking through fire. In the hallway, I pause. The world tilts. I press my hand against the cold wall, searching for strength. The bouquet slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor—petals scattering like broken promises. I lean over and pick up one pale daisy. Stare at its drooping bloom. My cheeks burn, and my throat tightens, but I whisper, “I am enough.” To myself, to him, to whoever’s listening. Then I walk out into the crisp autumn air, leaving my name, my dreams, and every shard of my heart behind. The courthouse door swings shut on my past. Ahead lies nothing but the unknown—and a secret I’ll carry alone.