Chapter 6: The Day Everything Changed
1110 Words
The morning of the wedding dawned gray and cold, the kind of New York winter day that made the city feel smaller, sharper, like it was pressing in on you.
Ella woke up in the guest wing of the estate at 5:47 a.m., stomach already in knots. She lay there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breath—old wood creaking, distant staff moving around downstairs. Six days ago she'd almost walked away.
Today she was walking down the aisle. She sat up slowly, wrapped the thick robe around herself, and padded to the window. Snow had fallen overnight, dusting the gardens in white. The fountain was frozen solid. It looked beautiful. It looser like a lie.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Mom.
Good morning, sweetheart. Today's the day. I'm thinking of you in that beautiful dress. Be brave. I love you more than anything.
Ella's throat closed. She typed back with shaking fingers, love you too. I'll call after. Promise. She didn't add the part she wanted to say, I'm scared. I don't know if I can do this.
By 7:30 the room was chaos, hair stylist, makeup artists, two assistants Victor had sent, all talking over each other. The dress hung on the door like a ghost. Someone brought coffee. Ella sipped it black, barely tasting it.
The makeup artist worked fast. "Relax your shoulders, honey. You're tense as a board."
Ella tried. Failed.
When the dress went on, the room went quiet for a second. The chiffon fell soft around her legs, the deep V neckline framed her collarbones, the straps delicate on her shoulders. She looked... like a bride.
She didn't feel like one.
Victor knocked at 10:15. He stepped inside, tuxedo impeccable, eyes soft when he saw her.
"You look stunning," he said quietly.
Ella managed a small smile. "Thank you."
He offered his arm. "Ready?"
No, she thought. But she took it anyway.
Downstairs, the house had been transformed. Flowers everywhere—white roses and soft green ferns.
Guests walked in, high society faces she recognised from magazines. Whispers followed her. She kept her eyes forward.
Alex was already at the front of the ballroom, standing tall in black, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't look at her when the doors opened. Not at first.
The music started slow. aching strings.
Victor squeezed her hand. "Breathe, Ella."
She tried.
They stepped forward.
The aisle felt endless. Every step pulled her closer to him. When they reached the front, Victor lifted her veil, kissed her cheek, and placed her hand in Alex's. This time their fingers didn't tremble. They just held on.
His eyes flicked over the dress, the makeup, the flowers in her hair. For one heartbeat his expression cracked something raw, unguarded. Then the mask slammed back down.
The priest began. It was short. Civil. No poetry, no promises of forever. Just the bare bones of a contract.
"Do you, Alexander Harrington, take Ella Thompson to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Alex voice was low, steady. "I do."
"Do you, Ella Thompson, take Alexander Harrington to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Ella throat was dry. She felt every eye on her.
"I do," she whispered.
Rings were exchanged. Simple platinum bands. His fingers brushed hers when he slid the ring on—warm, deliberate. She flinched slightly.
The priest smiled. "You may kias the bride."
The room waited.
Alex looked down at her. No smile. No tenderness. Just that same piercing stare. He leaned in slow, like he had all the time in the world.
When his mouth met hers, it wasn't soft or gentle. It was controlled, firm, possessive, a claim more than a kiss. His hand came to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him for the briefest second. Heat shot through her, unwanted, electric.
The guest applauded. He pulled back first, eyes dark. She tasted whiskey on his lips. They turned to face the crowd. Cameras flashed. Smiles everywhere expect theirs.
The reception was a blur of champagne, toasts, forced smiles. Victor spoke about legacy and family. Marcus clapped Alex on the back, grinning too wide.
"Congrats, man. She cleans up nice."
Alex's jaw clenched. He didn't answer.
Ella sat beside him at the head table, hands folded in her lap. She didn't eat much. Neither did he.
When the first dance was announced, he stood, offered his hand without looking at her.
She took it.
The music was slow, haunting. He pulled her close, chest to chest, one hand low on her back, the other holding hers. They moved in small circles, bodies barely touching.
"You look beautiful," he said, voice so quiet only she could hear.
She blinked up at him. "Thank you."
But this doesn't change anything."
"I know." She replied.
His grip tightened just a fraction. "Good."
They finished the dance in silence.
When the song ended, he let go like she burned.
The night dragged on. Guests left. Staff cleared plates. Eventually it was just them, Victor, and a few lingering family members.
Victor hugged her gently. "Welcome to the family, sweetheart."
Ella nodded, throat too tight to speak. Alex watched from across the room, expression unreadable.
When the last guest was gone, Victor patted Alex's shoulder. "Take care of her."
Alex didn't answer.
Victor left.
They were alone. The house felt too big, too quiet.
Alex loosened his tie, stared at the floor. "We should go upstairs."
Ella's heart slammed against her ribs. "Okay."
They walked the long hallway in silence. The master suite had been prepared, candles, rose petals on the bed, champagne chilling. Someone's idea of romance.
Alex shut the door behind them. He looked at the bed, then at her. "I'm not sleeping with you tonight," he said flatly.
Relief and disappointment hit her at the same time. "Okay."
He nodded once. "You take the bed. I'll use the couch."
She started to protest—he was the one who lived here—but he cut her off.
"Don't argue. Just... go to sleep."
She changed in the bathroom, slipped into the silk nightgown the stylist had left. When she came out, he was already on the couch, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, staring at the ceiling.
She climbed into the huge bed alone. The sheets were cold.
She lay there, listening to him breathe.
No consummation. No grand seduction scene. Just two strangers in the same space, pretending it didn't matter.
But as the candles burned low, Ella stared at the ceiling and realised something terrifying. It did matter. And she wasn't sure she could keep pretending it didn't.
- Writer
