CHAPTER 25
Scott stood rigidly at the altar, his hands clasped so tightly he was losing feeling in his fingers. The chapel, adorned with the finest silks and flowers, felt less like a venue for a joyous union and more like the grand stage for his personal tragedy. He could hear the soft rustling of the guests, the quiet anticipation of the crowd waiting for the grand event to unfold.
Behind him stood his best friend, Mark, anxiety and distress emanating from him and coating Scott in misery and regret. If ever there was a man who did not want to be a best man, it was Mark. But to not have him stand up with Scott would have caused talk because everyone in Shiretopia knew they’d been best friends since preschool.
Their plan for Scott to flee Shiretopia, thus allowing Mark and Rose more time to find a way for their happy ever after, had failed. Not that Mark or Rose blamed him. They’d all known their plan was thin; they just hadn’t realized how thin.
Scott turned and glanced at his friend, who gave him a tight smile.
The solemn notes of the wedding march reverberated through the chapel, each chord resonating with a sense of finality in Scott’s heart. As he watched Rose, a vision in white, glide down the aisle on her father’s arm, the reality of the moment hit him with the force of a tidal wave. The veil delicately draped over her face did little to conceal her tear-stained cheeks, a poignant reminder of their heart-wrenching conversation just moments ago.
As the priest’s solemn voice filled the hallowed space, the age-old question hanging in the air, “If anyone here knows any reason why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace,” a weighty silence enveloped the room.
Scott’s pulse quickened, a rush of adrenaline flooding his system. He’d forgotten about this pivotal moment in the ceremony. If only they had thought ahead, planted someone in the crowd to voice an objection…
His eyes darted desperately across the sea of faces, searching for a savior, a chance, a miracle. He couldn’t help but think of Ms. Birdie, whose fearless spirit would have boldly challenged the royal decree. Unfortunately, she was not in attendance and could not come to his rescue. A twist of fate had delayed her arrival.
Beside him, Rose’s quiet sniffles pierced the silence, a subtle reminder of their shared plight. Scott reached out, his fingers intertwining with hers in a silent promise of solidarity. They had agreed to a temporary alliance—a marriage in name only, a facade to weather the storm.
In the quiet aftermath of their union, they would seek their mutual freedom.
Rose’s fingers tightened around his, her watery smile barely visible through the veil. Scott, ever the gentleman, discreetly handed her his handkerchief, a small act of kindness in their shared charade.
The priest’s voice, grave and unwavering, brought Scott back to the present. Each word seemed to echo from a great distance, his thoughts adrift in a sea of memories. Memories of Doc—her vibrant laugh, the fierce spark in her eyes, her unyielding spirit. She had been a constant challenge, a thorn in his side, and yet, in removing that thorn, it had embedded itself irreversibly in his heart.
Now, as the moment to recite his vows drew near, a sense of suffocating panic set in. His mother’s words echoed in his mind, a mantra for him to always follow his true North. Yet, how could he have ever chosen to go back for Doc and rekindle her love when his best friend’s freedom hung in the balance, a pawn in this royal game?
The priest turned to Scott. “Scott, repeat after me. I, Scott,” he began, initiating the binding vows.
Scott’s throat tightened, his voice a mere whisper lost in the grandeur of the moment. He knew the weight of the words he was about to utter, the invisible chains they would forge. “I, Scott,” he echoed, his voice barely audible, a reluctant echo in the hushed chapel.
“Take thee, Rose,” the priest continued, oblivious to the turmoil churning within Scott.
“Take thee, Rose,” Scott repeated mechanically, each word a heavy stone in his heart. He was playing his part in a script written by others, a script that betrayed his true feelings.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” the priest concluded the phrase, a final step toward sealing a fate Scott never wanted.
Suddenly, a soft, pain-filled sound escaped from Rose, a note of distress that resonated with Scott’s own inner turmoil. It was a sound that shattered the fa?ade, a crack in the perfect image of the royal wedding.
That very sound seemed to trigger something in Mark. With a sudden burst of resolve, he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tense air. “Stop. I can’t stand by and watch this happen.”
The priest, taken aback, turned to Mark. “What is the problem, my child?” he asked, his expression a mix of confusion and concern.
“I’m in love with Rose.” Mark’s confession hung in the air like a thunderclap.
The chapel, once a scene of royal decorum, erupted into a cacophony of whispers and gasps. Guests turned to one another, their expressions a mixture of shock and intrigue.
“He’s lying,” Scott said. There was no way he would allow Mark to take the heat. If anyone was to be painted the villain, it would be him. “He’s just saying that to get me out of this wedding. The truth is, I’m in love with another woman. Madly in love. That is why Rose is crying.”
Mildred, the wicked queen, stood with a regal yet cold demeanor. With a dismissive wave of her hand toward Mark, she commanded, “Take him away.”
The guards began to advance toward Mark, but before they could lay a hand on him, Rose’s voice, strong and unwavering, pierced through the chaos. “I would rather face death than marry a man in love with another!” Her declaration echoed through the chapel, a fierce testament to her own heart’s truth, and silenced the room with its intensity.
The Queen, undeterred, fixed all of them with a cold, unyielding stare. “It is the will of the King that this union take place. None of your feelings matter when weighed against duty and tradition.” This was Mildred’s ultimate revenge against Scott’s mother. To show no mercy for her son. For Scott.
Scott’s temper took over. The absurdity of it all—a wedding where both the bride and the groom’s hearts belonged elsewhere—was overwhelmingly clear. “As the future King of Shiretopia,” he said, speaking directly to Mildred, “I declare you wrong.” He then glanced at those in attendance. “The desires of Shiretopia’s future king shall not be dismissed so easily.”
“Future kings have no say in current matters of the country,” Mildred said coldly. She turned toward her husband. “Tell them I’m correct, King Landshire. Tell them this wedding will go through as planned.”
“Father?” Scott said. “Will you have me marry a woman whom I feel nothing for? A woman whom all of Shiretopia now knows is in love with my best friend?”
The King, his voice, seasoned with age, resonated with a quiet authority. “We are not barbarians, intent on forcing unions upon those unwilling. This should never have reached such a point,” he acknowledged, casting a sympathetic glance at Scott and Rose. “If neither wishes to proceed with this marriage, it can be halted, provided there is proof that the curse afflicting the Landshire lineage has indeed been broken, thus allowing my son to know the emotion love.”
“Father, is my word not adequate?” Scott asked.
“The time for your marriage is upon us, my son. If there is a woman who holds your heart, let her take Rose’s place,” the King decreed.
“That can be arranged, but I must first return to Manhattan to win her heart,” Scott protested.
“I planned for such an outburst during this ceremony,” Father said. “As such, I’ve arranged for you to win her heart here and now in front of all of Shiretopia.” He gestured toward the chapel doors. “Let her in.”
As the doors swung open, Doc stood there, looking outrageously out of place yet strikingly beautiful. Her emerald eyes were wide with shock, her blonde hair tousled as if she had been caught in a whirlwind. She was clad in mismatched pajamas—the bottoms had images of books on them, the top a mismatched, oversized T-shirt—one of his. On her feet, mismatched fuzzy slippers. One pink. One black. Yet even in this disheveled state, there was an undeniable charm about her that made Scott’s heart trip all over itself with the urge to escape and run to her side.
Doc’s eyes darted around the chapel, taking in the opulent setting, the expectant faces, and Scott standing at the altar. “You kidnapped me from my apartment to witness your wedding?” The absurdity of her attire in the midst of the grandeur of a royal wedding struck a note of humor amidst the tension, eliciting a few stifled chuckles from the crowd.
A scoffing noise from the queen drew Scott’s eyes toward her.
“You can’t seriously be considering allowing her as the next queen of Shiretopia!” Mildred said to the King. “She looks no more fit than that shrew—”
“Enough,” the king bellowed.
The queen’s words trailed off into a venomous hiss as she glared at Doc, her disdain palpable.
Doc glared back. “I’ll have you know I was very comfortable in the privacy of my home until two men showed up and brought me here against my will.” She paused and gave a proper huff of exasperation. “So, excuse my lack of royal attire. They didn’t even let me pack my Jimmy Choos.”
Scott’s heart swelled with admiration as Doc faced the queen’s contempt with fiery determination. Despite her bewildering and abrupt arrival, clad in pajamas that were a stark contrast to the regal setting, she exuded a strength that defied her casual appearance.
“You are perfectly perfect as you are,” Scott told Doc.
A murmur of approval, mixed with a few suppressed smiles, rippled through the assembly. Scott couldn’t quash a wave of pride. Doc, with her unapologetic authenticity, had captivated the room, earning admiration from everyone present, including himself.
Scott’s gaze shifted to his father, who stood silently, observing Doc with an expression that bordered on respect. “Father?” Scott prompted, seeking his response.
The king seemed to emerge from a contemplative state, nodding slowly. “Indeed,” he said, his voice resonating with a newfound acknowledgment. “The future queen’s mettle is not measured by her dress, but by her character.” His words, affirming Doc’s worthiness, were in sharp contrast to the queen’s superficial judgments.
“Could someone please tell me why I’m here?” Doc’s voice cut through the tension.
Scott’s attention was drawn back to Doc, who stood defiantly amidst the chapel’s opulence. She’d loved him once; he’d do whatever it took to win her heart again. “Dr. Luxury Stone, a part of my body is broken, I need for you to please put it back together.”
Her eyes widened, and her gaze swung down his body and then back up to his eyes and too late he realized his folly. But before he could correct her misunderstanding, she spoke.
“Hell”s fudging bells. I thought…but my analysis…it must have been wrong. Gah. I warned you, my nightmares come true. I mean, of course, in my dream you came to me, but it stands to reason—with such a medical condition you’re in no shape to travel, and thus my need to come to you. How did it happen? How did you break your—”
A guffaw came from Mark. He knew.
A snicker came from Rose. She knew.
“Scott,” the king said, cutting off Doc’s babbling, a hint of amusement in his voice. He knew. “You’ve got ten minutes.”