Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Lila
The silk of my dress whispers with every step, like it has opinions about this whole situation and none of them are supportive.
Cream-colored. Simple. Pretty in a way that feels accidental, because it was thrown together in under an hour by a stylist with a steamer and a prayer. There is no big wedding gown. No veil. No bouquet. No music.
Instead, there is a narrow ERS corridor and my heartbeat doing parkour in my chest.
My hands shake, so I keep smoothing the sides of the dress like there are wrinkles I can bully into submission. There aren’t. I’m just trying to convince my body we’re doing something normal.
We are not doing something normal.
Manny walks a step behind me, steady and quiet. I don’t look back, but I feel him there like an anchor, like the one adult in the room. Which is funny, because I am technically an adult. I just don’t feel like one right now.
ERS feels too sedate for this.
The lighting is soft. The carpet muffles my steps. The air smells faintly like expensive tea and moral superiority. Like this place is designed to make people feel happy and calm while they sign documents that will change their lives forever.
I float a little, like I’m outside my body watching myself walk. Like I’m about to wake up backstage, sweaty and disoriented, and tell my tour manager I just had the worst dream and I need an IV and a new life.
Because this feels like something I would write into a song when I’m being dramatic.
Only I’m not writing it.
I’m living it.
My throat tightens as we move farther down the hall. I swallow and force my shoulders down, because I can already hear Sasha in my head telling me posture is ninety percent confidence and ten percent refusing to crumble.
The door at the end of the hallway is closed.
It looks ordinary. Plain wood. Silver handle.
Like it isn’t about to change everything.
My pulse taps hard against my ribs. My palms feel damp. I wipe them discreetly against the dress and immediately regret it, because the silk is too expensive to be used as an emotional support towel.
Manny says nothing, but his presence shifts slightly, like he’s ready to catch me if I start tipping.
I take another step.
Then another.
The hallway feels longer than it should, giving me plenty of time to reflect on my choices, and, you know, consider running for an emergency exit.
But I don't.
The door opens. And there Camden stands. He's just inside the room, dark henley, broad shoulders, hands clasped in front of him like he’s bracing for impact. His expression is grim, controlled, the kind of face men wear when they are determined not to show anyone their emotions.
The sight of him makes reality slam into me.
This is not a dream.
This is not a song.
This is me, walking into a room to get married to a stranger.
A very real, very intimidating stranger.
My feet keep moving because they have apparently betrayed me and chosen forward motion over self-preservation.
I step closer, and Camden’s eyes flick to mine.
Brief. Sharp. Unreadable.
Then his jaw tightens like he’s preparing for battle.
And I realize, with a strange twist of dread, that he isn’t the only one.
The room we walk into looks like it tried very hard not to be a wedding.
A polished conference space. Neutral walls. Soft overhead lighting that feels more suited to a mediation than a life-altering commitment. A long table has been pushed aside to make room, like someone remembered this was supposed to be ceremonial about five minutes ago.
Evelyn stands near the front, composed and unflappable as ever. Beside her is an older woman with kind eyes and an energy that says I have seen stranger things than this before lunch. She introduces herself as a licensed civil judge, her voice calm and solemn without being dramatic.
I appreciate that. Drama and I are currently not on speaking terms.
A couple of ERS staff members linger along the walls. They’re here as witnesses, not guests. Clipboards instead of programs. No flash photography. No beach resort overflowing with flowers, friends, and family.
Just contracts dressed up as vows.
I try not to think about my mother finding out about this from a carefully worded press release.
Or worse, a push notification.
Near the back wall, another couple waits their turn.
The man looks well-dressed and profoundly bored, like this is a dentist appointment he didn’t want but couldn’t cancel.
The woman beside him wears jeans and a sparkly handbag and stares at the paperwork like it might still dissolve if she glares hard enough.
We lock eyes for half a second.
She gives me a look that says, You too?
I give her one back that says, I’m so sorry.
My heartbeat is loud in my ears as I step forward. The sound of my shoes against the floor feels amplified, like the room is mic’d for dramatic effect even though no one is filming.
I move to stand beside Camden.
He doesn’t look at me right away.
His gaze stays fixed ahead, jaw rigid, shoulders squared. He looks like he’s about to take a hit and plans to walk it off out of sheer spite.
I recognize it immediately.
Fear. Dressed up as control.
I know that costume well.
When his eyes finally flick toward mine, it’s brief. A single beat. Long enough for something sharp and unsettling to pass between us.
Oh.
You’re not okay either.
I glance at Camden again. His jaw tightens, then relaxes, like he’s consciously unclenching. His hands are folded loosely in front of him now, but there’s tension there. A barely contained energy.
We aren’t celebrities here.
We aren’t a headline or a PR solution or a fan fantasy.
We’re just two people being legally bound in a room that looks like it could host a quarterly earnings call.
“Please face each other,” the judge says.
I turn slowly, like my body is moving through water instead of air.
Camden mirrors me. For a second, we just stand there, too aware of the space between us. Too aware of the fact that we’re about to cross a line that exists mostly in my head but still feels very real.
In the corner of the room, I notice a different couple. The man in the dark coat stands a full two feet away from the petite woman beside him, like proximity itself is negotiable. She clutches a sketchbook to her chest like armor, eyes fixed on the floor.
I wonder what brought them here.
Camden shifts slightly, and that’s when I notice the slight shake in his hands.
He isn’t calm. He isn’t unaffected. The man who looks like he could snap a door in half with his bare hands is holding himself very carefully together.
“Take each other’s hands,” the judge instructs.
Camden moves first.
He extends his hand toward me, palm up, fingers relaxed like he’s giving me a choice instead of an obligation.
I hesitate.
I tell myself this is nothing. Just skin. Just nerves. Just a legal formality that will last all of thirty seconds.
Then I place my hand in his.
Warm.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Warm and solid and steady in a way that my body registers before my brain can interfere. My fingers curl slightly without permission, like they’re searching for balance.
My pulse leaps, traitorous and fast.
Camden inhales sharply. Just once. A quiet sound, barely there, but I hear it. Feel it. Like he didn’t expect this either.
Our hands tighten together, instinctively.
This is supposed to be strategic. Contained.
My chest tightens, and every instinct I have screams that this is dangerous territory.
I want to pull away.
Camden looks like he does too.
His jaw flexes. His thumb twitches, then stills, like he’s consciously stopping himself from doing something comforting. Familiar. Human.
Neither of us lets go.
The room seems to fade at the edges. The judge’s voice continues, calm and even, but it sounds distant now, like it’s coming from another floor.
All I can feel is his hand.
The contrast between us. The difference in size. The fact that he’s being so careful, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use and no more.
My shoulders relax without my permission.
I focus on my breathing. In. Out. Keep your feet on the floor. Keep your heart from running off without you.
Eventually, the judge pauses, glancing down at her notes.
My fingers finally loosen, just a fraction.
Camden’s do too.
The judge’s voice settles into a steady rhythm, the kind designed to move things along without inviting emotion.
This is a civil ceremony. Legal. Efficient. Streamlined to remove anything that might complicate consent with feeling.
There are no vows of love.
No promises of forever.
No in sickness and in health or till death do us part to haunt us later.
Instead, there are names. Dates of birth. Confirmation of identity. A clause acknowledging that this marriage is valid and binding under state law.
I nod when I’m supposed to nod.
I answer when I’m prompted, my voice sounding calm and distant, like it belongs to someone who has her life together. I have a lot of practice sounding like that.
Camden responds beside me, his voice low and steady. It doesn’t match the tension I can feel in his hand, or the way his shoulders are set like he’s holding something back.
I don’t look at him again. If I do, I might lose my footing.
Evelyn stands off to the side, watching with that composed, unreadable expression of hers. She looks like someone observing an experiment that is proceeding exactly as expected. I try not to resent her for that.
The room smells faintly of polished wood and paper. The scent of boardrooms and contracts and decisions made with pens instead of hearts.
I keep staring at the rings on the small table near the judge.
They are simple. Unadorned. Neutral to the point of anonymity.
No diamonds. No engraving. No symbolism beyond what the law requires.
These rings were chosen not to mean too much.
My chest tightens anyway.
I tell myself that’s ridiculous. This is a transaction. A solution.
And yet.
Something about standing here, holding another person’s hand while the law stitches our lives together, cuts deeper than I expected.
The judge’s voice echoes slightly in the room, formal words bouncing off sterile walls. I feel like I’m drifting, like I’m watching this happen through glass.
I wonder if this is how astronauts feel during launch. Strapped in. Countdowns happening around them. No real control left once the engine starts and the acceleration begins.
I risk a glance down at our joined hands.
Camden’s thumb is still, resting near my knuckles but not touching them. Like he’s acutely aware of exactly where the line is and refuses to cross it without permission.
A tremor moves through my arm. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or something closer to grief.
Then the judge looks up and gives a small nod. “You may release hands.”
I let go immediately.
The separation sends a strange aftershock through me, like my body had adjusted to his presence faster than my mind could catch up. My fingers curl briefly in empty air before I force them still at my side.
Camden releases at the same moment. I feel it more than I see it.
Our hands retreat like they were never there.
The room feels colder.
I swallow and focus on the floor, on the solid ground beneath my feet.
Safety. Structure. Distance.
Not whatever my nervous system is currently trying to negotiate.
I square my shoulders just as the judge reaches for the final paperwork.
This part, at least, I know how to handle.
Paper never surprises you.
The judge gathers the paperwork with practiced efficiency. Pages are signed. Witnesses add their names. A seal is pressed into place with a quiet, definitive thump that feels far too loud in the room.
She steps back and offers a small, polite smile.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You are legally married.”
Married.
My vision fuzzes at the edges, the room softening as if someone turned the focus ring just a little too far.
A stranger.
My life is tethered to his now.
His life is tethered to mine.
I keep my posture intact. Breathe in. Smile. Breathe out. Don’t faint in front of the civil judge.
Camden shifts beside me.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that I feel it, like a change in air pressure.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t reach for my hand or my arm or anything that would make this harder.
He simply leans in, his voice low and pitched only for me.
“You don’t have to call me Camden,” he says quietly.
A beat.
“Cam is fine.”
I give him a look. It's ridiculous and strange. Everything is in the wrong order here.
He exhales through his nose, something like a smile pulling at his mouth.
“Well,” he murmurs, dry and rough at the same time, “my mom is going to have questions.”
The timing is so absurd that a laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. It’s quiet and shaky and probably inappropriate, but it’s real.
I glance up at him.
For the first time since this started, his expression isn’t locked down. There’s tension there, yes, but also something else. A flicker of disbelief. A hint of humor. A man trying to orient himself inside a moment he didn’t plan for.
I feel unsteady. Not in a fainting way. In a standing-on-the-edge-of-something way.
I inhale. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then I meet his gaze and say the only thing that feels honest in this surreal, quiet, legally binding moment.
“It’s nice to meet you, Cam.”