Chapter 13
Clara
Morning light slips through the curtains, warm and soft against the mirror.
It glances off the silk of my dress and turns the ivory fabric to pale gold.
I barely recognize the woman looking back at me.
My hair’s pinned in loose waves, simple but elegant, just clean lines and quiet confidence.
The dress fits well enough for something I didn’t have time to tailor, skimming my shape without trying too hard.
The makeup artist hums under her breath as she works at my lips.
My pulse is steady, my chest light. I didn’t expect calm today—not with everything that’s happened—but somehow, I feel it.
Maybe because Jeremy’s in my life now. Maybe because he’s already taken half my burdens without asking for credit.
He’s moved into my house as though he’s always belonged there, fixing the leaky faucet, rewiring the hallway light, and brewing coffee before I’m fully awake.
His laugh fills the rooms that used to echo.
The factory hums smoother under his hand too, Granddad Weston preparing to hand over the reins officially by the end of next month.
I watch him sometimes when he’s not looking, sleeves rolled up, talking to the crew with an authority that never fails to ramp up my libido.
I never thought I wanted this. A husband. A partner. Someone who could step into my life and make it feel less like an endless checklist and more like a rhythm. But he did.
And today, I get to say “I do” to the one person who made me believe in the word we.
A soft knock breaks the quiet, barely louder than the brush of powder across my cheek. I glance toward the door, expecting the makeup artist’s assistant or maybe Grandma Weston with another bouquet check.
“Come in,” I call.
The door creaks open, and the sound hits something deep in my chest—a note I didn’t know was waiting.
My father stands there in the doorway.
The tuxedo he’s wearing doesn’t fit right, the shoulders too wide, the fabric faded with time. His tie is crooked, his hands awkward at his sides like he isn’t sure what to do with them. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“Clara.” His voice is soft, almost tentative. “You look… grown-up.”
The makeup artist goes still, her brush hovering. I meet her eyes in the mirror and nod toward the door. She understands, murmurs something about checking on the flowers, and slips out.
My father clears his throat. “I thought I’d walk you down the aisle.”
I stand slowly, smoothing my hands over the dress that suddenly feels too tight across my ribs. “That won’t be happening, Dad.”
He shifts his weight. “It’s tradition. A father gives away his daughter.”
I hold his gaze, my voice steady. “Then I guess you’ll have to sit this tradition out.”
“Come on, sweetheart.” His voice slips into that pleading register I grew up with, soft around the edges but sharp underneath. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. It’s tradition. I’m your father.”
The word lands heavy. I push to my feet, the skirt brushing across the floor. “Biologically, maybe. But Mr. Weston has been more of a father to me than you ever were. He’ll walk me down the aisle.”
His mouth twitches, the smile he tries to hold turning stiff and hollow. “You’d really do that? Humiliate me, on your wedding day?”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the vanity. “You handled that part years ago.”
For a second, I see the flash in his eyes—the one that used to send me running to my room.
His jaw works, shoulders tight, but then something shifts.
The air leaves him in a quiet exhale, his chin lowering as if the weight of it all has finally settled.
“You’re right,” he says. His voice is rough, scraped raw. “I deserve that. Probably worse.”
I blink, not sure what to do with the silence that follows. Then the door swings open and Jeremy fills the doorway, tie hanging loose, eyes scanning the room. His grandparents linger just behind him, steady and unyielding.
“What’s going on?” Jeremy’s tone is calm, but his focus cuts clean through the space between us.
My father straightens, rubbing his palms against his thighs like he doesn’t know where to put them. “I came to apologize. To both of you.”
The room stills. Even the ticking of the clock fades.
He looks at me first. “You were right. I’ve been running from myself for years.
Gambling. Drinking. Losing everything that mattered and pretending it wasn’t my fault.
” His voice thins as he glances toward Jeremy.
“You didn’t owe me anything, and still you gave me a chance to make things right. I won’t waste it.”
Granddad Weston leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. His tone stays even. “You planning to prove that, or just talk about it?”
A shadow of a smile pulls at my father’s mouth. “I’ll prove it.”
Jeremy pulls his phone from his pocket. “There’s a treatment center a couple hours from here.” He taps the screen, searches for a moment, then brings up the number. “Here.”
My father hesitates before he takes the phone. His fingers hover, then close around it like he’s afraid it might burn. He looks at the number on the screen for a long breath before pressing call. The room goes quiet while it rings.
When someone answers, his shoulders pull tight. “I’d like to admit myself to treatment.” The words sound foreign on his tongue. “Gambling and alcohol mostly.”
He listens. “Over thirty years.” His throat moves with a hard swallow. “Yes.” Another pause. “Yes.”
His free hand grips the back of a chair, and the knuckles turn pale. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” His voice cracks on the word. He nods once. His eyes are glassy but steadier than I ever recall seeing.
“Yes. Today. I’ll come in today.” When he lowers the phone, the silence feels thick with something fragile and new. For the first time in years, his gaze meets mine and holds.
The restless glint I’ve always known is gone. “I can’t undo anything I’ve done.” His gaze drops but then my dad straightens and meets my eyes. “But I can try to be better. If you’ll let me, I’d like to watch you get married.”
It takes effort to find my voice. “You can stay. But Mr. Weston will walk me down the aisle.”
He nods, the faintest hint of peace crossing his face. “That’s fair.”
He shakes Jeremy’s hand, grips it tight, then lets Grandma Weston straighten his crooked tie while Granddad watches in silence. When they step out, the door clicks shut and the quiet folds back in.
Jeremy doesn’t move.
“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
His breath stirs the tiny hairs near my ear. Heat curls low in my belly. The sound of him breathing feels too close, too steady, like he’s inside the same heartbeat.
Something shifts inside me, a pull that tightens every muscle. My skin prickles as if the air has turned alive.
He smiles, the corner of his mouth curving slow. “I’ll risk it.”
When his arms slide around me, my world steadies. His heartbeat thuds against my cheek, sure and strong, like it’s marking time just for me.
“Do you think he’ll really change?” I ask.
Jeremy’s thumb moves in slow circles at the base of my spine. “I don’t know. Addicts lie until they don’t. Sometimes they learn better. Sometimes they don’t.”
I lift my head and his lips find mine.
For a heartbeat I hover there, breath caught, the last of the tension still coiled tight inside me. Then his hand slides up my back and settles between my shoulder blades, drawing me closer. My body goes with him before I can think about it.
His mouth moves over mine, giving me time to meet him instead of taking control.
I lean in, closing the distance I’ve been holding onto all day.
My fingers curl into his shirt, the fabric bunching under my grip as I anchor myself to him.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and I open to him.
The first brush of his tongue pulls a soft sound from me, my breath catching as I answer him, matching the rhythm he sets.
I follow it, fall into it, until my breathing lines up with his.
His thumb traces the same path at the base of my spine, again and again, keeping me there.
I shift closer, pressing into him, feeling the strength of his body under my hands, the rise and fall of his chest against mine.
The noise in my head fades. The tight knot under my ribs loosens, piece by piece, until I can draw in a full breath without it catching.
When he eases back, it happens in stages. His lips brush mine once more before he pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His hand stays at my back, not letting me drift.
I keep my eyes closed, holding onto the moment, letting it settle. “I’m not responsible for him.”
Jeremy doesn’t hesitate. “No. You’re not.”
My shoulders drop under his hand. My grip on his shirt loosens, but I don’t step away. I flatten my palms against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath them. He stays where he is, giving me space without stepping back, without filling the silence.
I open my eyes and meet his.
“We should get you ready,” he says.
I nod, but stay where I am. My fingers smooth over his shirt where I wrinkled it, a small excuse to keep touching him.
In a few hours, I’ll be standing in front of everyone.
Mrs. Jeremy Weston.
The thought moves through me without resistance. My chest doesn’t tighten. I don’t brace. Our marriage may have been arranged, but it feels pre-destined instead. Like this man was always meant for me.
I lean in and kiss him again, softer this time. He answers it immediately, his hand tightening briefly at the back of my neck before easing.
“I know,” I say. “We should.”
But my hands remain on his chest, my body still angled toward his.
Because when I walk down that aisle, he’ll be there.
And this time, I don’t feel like I have to hold everything together on my own. Love will do that for me.
The words come out before I can stop them. “I love you,” I whisper, looking up into his eyes, holding my breath as I wait to see if he’ll say it back.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I love you to. I think I always have.” He pauses, then smiles. “So let’s go make it official, shall we?”