16 - The Marriage Venue
The car horn split the summer quiet — a sharp, impatient sound that echoed through the maple-lined street and shattered the Landon estate's calm fa?ade.
Inside, Scarlett Landon froze.
The clasp of her grandmother's pearl earring slipped from her trembling fingers, catching against her skin before it clicked shut.
Her reflection in the mirror stared back — honey-blonde curls tumbling over bare shoulders, a soft blue dress smoothed to perfection, eyes wide and uncertain beneath their careful makeup.
It's just a venue visit, she told herself. Just a tour. Just another reminder that I'm marrying a man who feels like a stranger.
Another honk — shorter, sharper.
Scarlett drew in a breath, grabbed her purse, and left her room. Her heels tapped rhythmically against the polished wood floor, the sound following her down the staircase like a heartbeat she couldn't calm.
When she opened the front door, the heat rushed in — thick, golden, and heavy with the scent of cut grass and sun-warmed asphalt. The air shimmered. The world pulsed with summer.
At the curb, Ethan Blackwood's Aston Martin gleamed, black as ink and twice as cold.
He didn't look up. One hand rested lazily on the wheel, the other scrolling through his phone. Sunglasses concealed his eyes, and the sharp line of his jaw was set in its usual indifference.
Scarlett paused on the porch — one last breath of freedom — then walked toward him.
The leather seat exhaled softly beneath her as she slid in. Before she could even reach for her seatbelt, the car leapt forward, engine purring like a restrained animal.
"Let's make this quick," Ethan said, eyes never leaving his screen.
Scarlett turned toward him, catching the faint reflection of her own face in his sunglasses. "Charming," she said, voice level. "You could at least pretend to care. This is our wedding."
"We both know what this is."
The words landed flat, unbothered, practiced.
"Appearances matter, Mr. Blackwood," she said softly. "Isn't that your entire life? Carefully curated perfection?"
He didn't answer.
A click in his Bluetooth earpiece, a curt, professional voice: "Henderson needs to deliver by five. No excuses."
Scarlett turned away, gaze drifting to the passing scenery — neighborhoods dissolving into open road, then into the slow sprawl of countryside.
She said nothing. Not because she'd run out of words, but because he never gave her space for them to land.
The silence filled the car, thick and humming. Only the low sound of tires against asphalt and the quiet chime of notifications broke through.
She studied him from the corner of her eye — the set of his shoulders, the grip of his hand on the wheel, the tension that never seemed to leave his body. Once, that intensity had fascinated her. Now, it only made her feel like a passenger in his orbit — pulled close, but never allowed to touch.
Then, through the trees, Meadowbrook Estate appeared.
It rose out of the rolling green like something out of a dream — pale limestone walls glowing under the sun, ivy creeping up its edges, and beyond it, hills rolling like silk.
The wrought-iron gates swung open at their approach, black and polished to a mirror sheen. The driveway curved gently through an avenue of oak trees, their branches interlocking above like a cathedral ceiling, light spilling in golden patches across the path.
When the car stopped, Scarlett stepped out, the heat wrapping around her like a living thing. She drew in a deep breath.
The estate was breathtaking.
Gardens stretched outward in waves of manicured perfection. Willow trees bent over the lake, their reflections rippling softly. Fairy lights hung from branches even in daylight, as though the place refused to dim, even for the sun. Swans glided across the water in effortless pairs.
"It's so beautiful," Scarlett whispered.
She turned to share the moment — but Ethan hadn't moved. Still by the car. Still staring at his screen.
Her throat tightened.
"Mr. Blackwood! Ms. Landon!"
A voice, bright and polished, called from the steps. A petite woman in a tailored navy suit approached briskly, clipboard in hand and smile as professional as it was welcoming.
"I'm Vivian Wright, your event coordinator," she said, extending a hand that neither of them took fast enough. "Welcome to Meadowbrook Estate. We've prepared several concepts based on your families' preferences. Shall we?"
Vivian didn't wait for an answer. She turned, heels clicking crisply over the stone.
Scarlett followed, the hem of her blue dress brushing lightly against her legs. Behind her, after a beat, Ethan's footsteps joined — measured, detached.
Inside, the estate unfolded like a film set.
The foyer soared upward, all marble and light, crowned by a chandelier that glittered like a suspended constellation. Floor-to-ceiling windows painted the room in sunlight, while air conditioning whispered through the hall, cool and faintly floral.
Vivian narrated effortlessly — the architecture, the history, the capacity, the designer linens. Scarlett nodded when required, but her eyes kept catching details: orchids spilling from vases, tablecloths embroidered with silver thread, cutlery gleaming like weaponry.
"The grand ballroom can host up to three hundred," Vivian said, pushing open a pair of immense white doors.
The room swallowed them whole.
Light poured through a wall of windows overlooking the lake. The ceiling arched high, built to hold chandeliers or dreams. Vivian's voice floated — talk of drapery, of fairy lights threaded into fabric to create a starlit illusion.
Scarlett closed her eyes for a heartbeat and tried to imagine it.
Music swelling. Laughter rising. A first dance.
Would Ethan hold her close, his hand warm at her waist? Or would he maintain the same careful distance — just enough for the cameras, just enough for appearances?
Scarlett turned to speak — and froze.
Across the ballroom, Ethan stood by the window, his back half-turned, sunlight cutting a sharp line down the side of his face. His voice was low, measured — that particular kind of calm that only existed to hide anger.
"Yes. No delays," he said into his phone. "I don't care what it takes."
Something in his tone — the clipped authority, the absence of warmth — cracked something fragile inside her.
This was supposed to be their day. A preview of a life she'd never quite agreed to but was learning to survive.
Vivian's voice droned faintly somewhere nearby, explaining floral budgets, seating charts, champagne packages. None of it reached her. None of it mattered.
Because he wasn't really here.
She took a step forward. Then another. The echo of her heels carried through the ballroom's golden air.
"Ethan."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut — clean, resonant, impossible to ignore.
He stopped midsentence. Slowly, he turned.
The faintest irritation flickered behind his calm exterior, like the twitch of light before a storm.
"What?"
Scarlett met his gaze without flinching. "Could you at least pretend this matters?"
The words hung in the air, trembling between defiance and ache.
Vivian's pen stilled. The room seemed to still with it — chandeliers glinting in perfect silence, sunlight washing over marble.
Ethan ended the call with a precise tap and slipped the phone into his pocket. Then he began walking toward her.
Each step was deliberate, unhurried — the way a man moved when he wanted to remind the world that he never needed to rush for anyone.
When he stopped before her, he was close enough that she could smell him — clean linen, leather, and something darker beneath.
"I'm here, aren't I?" His tone was deceptively calm, but his eyes were hard. "That should be enough."
Scarlett's throat tightened. "No. It's not."
She held his gaze, her voice trembling but steady. "This is our wedding, Ethan. Whether or not we love each other — whether or not this is a contract — it's still happening. You don't get to treat it like another meeting on your calendar."
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
Scarlett's voice wavered, but her gaze didn't.
"Listen, Ethan," she began, softer now — not pleading, not angry, but steady in the way truth often is.
"I'm not asking for affection or attention.
I'm asking for respect. For five minutes of your focus — not because the world expects it, but because I do.
If you expect me to play my part at every event, to stand where you want me, smile when required — then I expect the same from you.
If not, then let me go. Let me take care of my business, the way you do. "
The room seemed to still around her. Even the light filtering through the tall windows felt suspended, holding its breath.
She took a step closer.
The air between them changed — warmer now, alive with something volatile.
When she spoke again, her words came quieter, sliding through the charged silence like a secret meant only for him.
"You agreed to respect mine. Remember?"
A long pause followed — heavy, intimate, and unguarded.
Something flickered in his eyes then — not anger, not arrogance, but something else. A hesitation. A recognition. A momentary fracture in the armor he wore so well.
He looked away first, exhaling slowly. His hand slipped into his pocket — an unconscious move, a tether to control. When he spoke, his voice was no longer sharp but shaded with reluctant softness.
"Fine," he murmured. "Now... tell me what do you want me to do?"
Scarlett blinked, startled. She hadn't expected surrender — not from him. She'd prepared herself for deflection, for another wall. But this—
this was disarming.
For a moment, her breath caught. The fight in her eased, but the ache still lingered, pressing beneath her ribs.
Her brow arched, quiet defiance glinting in her eyes. "Now," she said, the faintest curve tugging at her lips, "please pretend to be part of the play."
Something in his gaze darkened — a spark, sharp and deliberate.
Ethan's lips curved into the ghost of a smirk, the kind that promised both amusement and danger. In one smooth motion, he stepped forward, closed the distance, and slipped an arm around her waist — firm, possessive, pulling her just close enough for her breath to catch.
"Then let's start the play," he said, voice low, velvet-edged.
Scarlett's heart stuttered.
The sudden contact sent a rush of heat up her neck, blooming into her cheeks before she could stop it. Her pulse raced beneath his hand — traitorous, revealing. For an instant, her body forgot to resist; the proximity, the warmth, the scent of him — it all pressed too close.
But then her spine straightened. Her chin lifted.
If this was a performance, she would not be the one to falter.
With controlled grace, she eased herself out of his grasp — slow, deliberate, as though disentangling from invisible wires.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she turned toward Vivian, who stood frozen by the doorway, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
Scarlett's voice was calm again, cool and clear.
"Please," she said. "Continue the tour."
And as she walked forward, she could still feel his gaze on her back — steady, unreadable, like a man watching a fire he'd accidentally started but couldn't bring himself to put out.
"Of course," Vivian said quickly, her voice all professionalism again. "Let's head to the lakeside terrace."
This time, Ethan walked beside her.
He didn't speak. But he looked. He listened. When Vivian asked for preferences, he gave curt, precise answers — color palettes, seating arrangements, guest counts.
When she asked about the first dance song, he hesitated — and looked at Scarlett.
Their eyes met.
For the first time that day, neither had a ready answer.
Because it wasn't that kind of wedding.
The drive back was quiet — the kind of silence that hummed with everything unsaid.
Outside, the sun was sinking, painting the sky in strokes of gold and violet. Inside, the car was shadowed, still humming with the faint smell of leather and cologne.
By the time they reached the Landon house, the light had faded into something softer — a blue that clung to the world's edges.
Ethan didn't cut the engine.
Scarlett sat, purse on her lap, one hand on the door handle. She stared forward, then turned slightly toward him.
"Do you even want this?" she asked quietly.
His fingers flexed around the steering wheel. "Does it matter?"
The air between them stilled.
She opened the door, hesitated. Waiting. For something small — a word, a look, anything.
Nothing came.
As she stepped out, she thought she heard him sigh — faint, fleeting, almost imagined. When she turned, the car was already moving, taillights vanishing into the dusky street.
Scarlett stood there, shoes sinking slightly into the gravel, the night folding around her.
Three months.
Three months until she would become Scarlett Blackwood.
And the man she was marrying hadn't looked at her once like he wanted to.
Inside, she slipped off her heels, the cool marble grounding her again. Each step up the staircase echoed softly, lonely against the stillness of the house.
On the landing, she paused — eyes catching her reflection in the hallway mirror.
The pearls glimmered faintly in the dim light. Her grandmother's pearls. A promise of something pure.
Her lips parted — a whisper she didn't quite speak.
Will he ever?
The house gave no answer.
Only silence.
Only the faint echo of a car disappearing into the night.