28 - The wedding
The first pale light of dawn slipped quietly through the gossamer curtains, painting soft honey hues across the pale blue walls of Scarlett's childhood bedroom.
Her wedding dress hung by the window, a delicate silhouette against the morning sky.
Crystals stitched into the lace caught the sun's first rays and scattered tiny rainbows, like promises shimmering on the breeze.
The gown whispered secrets of a life yet to unfold — fragile, beautiful, and uncertain.
Scarlett lay beneath her silken sheets, her heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown the silence.
She stirred, eyelids fluttering open, and reality washed over her like a cold wave.
Today, she will cease to be Scarlett Landon.
Tomorrow, she'd be Scarlett Blackwood — a name foreign on her tongue, heavy in her chest.
She pushed the covers back and sat up slowly, auburn hair tumbling in tangled waves over her shoulders.
Her fingers curled tightly around the cool cotton sheets, knuckles whitening with every anxious twist. The morning air felt thick, pressing in with an almost suffocating weight, making each breath a conscious effort.
Her gaze swept the room — familiar and painfully precious.
The weathered bookshelf stood against the far wall, crowded with dog-eared novels and childhood memories.
A collection of seashells, carefully arranged on her dresser, caught glimmers of dawn.
Photographs framed in sterling silver smiled back at her: laughter frozen in time, moments of joy now tinged with bittersweet farewell.
Is this what I want? The question echoed relentlessly, louder with every heartbeat. Could she live a life bound not by love, but by duty? The signed contracts, the whispered arrangements, the debts cleared — all locked the door behind her. There was no turning back.
A soft knock interrupted the storm of her thoughts.
"Scarlett? Are you awake?"
The door creaked open, revealing Linda — best friend since kindergarten, and today, maid of honor in a ceremony Scarlett wished she could escape.
Linda stood framed in the doorway, a vision in a custom pastel blue gown that hugged her slender frame.
Her blonde hair was pinned into an elegant updo, tiny white flowers nestled like shy promises among the strands.
Despite the flawless exterior, her usually bright eyes held a flicker of concern.
"I brought you some chamomile tea," Linda said, setting a delicate porcelain cup on the nightstand. The scent of honey and herbs drifted softly, soothing the tense air.
Linda perched on the edge of the bed, her warm hand finding Scarlett's cold one. "So... how's my brave girl holding up?"
Scarlett tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges, betraying the truth. "Brave is a long way off. I'm scared, Lin. Terrified."
Linda's fingers tightened around hers. "Good. That means you're human. And you're not alone. I'm here."
The comfort in Linda's voice and touch was a fragile anchor. Scarlett squeezed back, drawing what little strength she could from the bond forged over decades.
Before she could answer, the door opened again. Matthew Landon stepped in, the weight of years etched into the lines around his eyes and the silver at his temples. His deep-set hazel eyes—mirroring Scarlett's own—held an ocean of emotions.
"My princess," he said, voice rough but tender, stepping across the room in a few careful strides. He settled beside her, the familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus wrapping around her like a memory — piggyback rides, late-night hot chocolates, whispered lullabies.
Scarlett swallowed hard, the comparison to her late mother stirring a sharp ache deep inside. Eleanor Landon had been the heart of their family, and today, the absence of her guidance felt unbearable.
Matthew's calloused hands cupped Scarlett's face, steady and warm. "You look just like your mom Scarlett," he murmured. "On her wedding day."
Scarlett's throat tightened. "I wonder what advice she'd give me now."
He smiled sadly, a fragile light in his tired eyes. "She'd say you're stronger than you know."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. Opening it revealed a pearl necklace, a single sapphire pendant catching the light—her grandmother's signature piece.
"Something borrowed, something blue," Matthew said softly, lifting the necklace from its satin cushion.
Scarlett's fingers hovered over the pearls, breathtaking. "You've kept this up all these years."
"Since the day you were born," Matthew said quietly. "My mom would want you to wear it today. To give you strength... and grace."
As he fastened the cool strand around her neck, Scarlett closed her eyes. For a fleeting moment, she imagined her grandmother's hands, steady and loving, brushing her hair and whispering courage.
The hours that followed blurred into a whirlwind of hairspray, makeup brushes, and whispered reassurances.
Scarlett let herself be transformed, becoming the bride everyone expected—radiant, elegant, poised.
The French lace gown, embroidered with hand-sewn crystals, hugged her slender frame perfectly, a masterpiece designed more for show than comfort.
She stood before the full-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman reflected back.
Her auburn hair swept into an intricate updo, with soft tendrils framing her face like delicate brushstrokes.
The makeup artist had accentuated her high cheekbones and full lips, crafting a natural beauty that masked the turmoil beneath.
"Time," Matthew's voice came from the doorway, pulling her from her reverie.
He had changed into his tailored charcoal gray suit, the silver of his hair stark against the dark fabric. He extended his arm — a steadying anchor in the storm raging inside her.
Scarlett nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, gripping tighter than she realized as they descended the staircase. Each step echoed in the quiet house, each step a final farewell to Scarlett Landon.
Outside, the sleek white limousine waited, adorned with subtle sprays of white roses and silver ribbons — tasteful, elegant, and utterly impersonal. The perfect vessel to carry her into a marriage she hadn't chosen.
—
The grand ballroom of the Blackwood Estate had been transformed into a scene lifted straight from a luxury magazine—a breathtaking stage of opulence and precision.
Towering floral arrangements of white roses, orchids, and lilies lined the aisle, their delicate fragrance weaving through the air and mingling with the subtle musk of expensive perfumes.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls of light, their warm, golden glow rippling across the polished marble floors.
Ivory silk drapes cascaded from ceiling to walls, softening the room with the illusion of being wrapped inside a cloud.
From a corner, a string quartet played a hauntingly beautiful melody, their notes drifting through the space like whispered secrets.
The music, elegant yet tinged with melancholy, seemed to echo Scarlett's own guarded emotions, hidden just beneath the surface.
Scarlett stood in the antechamber, the faint murmur of the guests filtering through the slightly ajar door.
Business magnates, political heavyweights, and social elites filled the room beyond—each a reminder that this was not a wedding born of love, but a carefully orchestrated merger of fortunes and influence.
The scent of fresh flowers did little to soothe the tight coil of nerves in her chest. Her fingers trembled beneath the cathedral-length veil, while her mind wandered between dread and resolve.
"Remember to breathe," Linda's voice broke through the fog, soft but firm as she adjusted the veil one last time. "Just put one foot in front of the other. You've got this."
Before Scarlett could reply, the wedding coordinator appeared, clipboard in hand, her tone clipped and mechanical. "We're ready for you," she said, as if Scarlett were an actor stepping onto a stage rather than a woman about to bind her life to a stranger.
The opening notes of Wagner's Bridal Chorus filled the hall, steady and inevitable. The double doors swung open, revealing a sea of expectant faces turned toward her. Scarlett's heart hammered in her chest, but her gaze was fixed elsewhere—on the man waiting at the altar.
Ethan Blackwood stood tall and unyielding, a figure sculpted from control.
His perfectly tailored black tuxedo hugged his broad shoulders, the crisp white of his shirt stark against his olive skin.
His raven hair was flawless, every strand in place, just like everything else in his life.
But it was his eyes that held Scarlett captive—dark and unreadable, like deep wells concealing storms beneath calm surfaces.
For a fleeting moment, as Scarlett appeared on her father's arm, something flickered in Ethan's stoic mask.
His shoulders stiffened, his breath caught—a brief, fragile crack in his practiced armor.
Surprise? Appreciation? Or resignation at the sight of the bride chosen for business, not love?
Scarlett didn't know, and she didn't allow herself to look.
Her eyes dropped to the marble floor's intricate patterns as she took each step, the sapphire pendant resting heavy against her throat, a symbol of promises made and sacrifices demanded.
At the altar, her father Matthew placed her shaking hand into Ethan's waiting palm.
His skin was warm beneath her icy fingers, his grip tightening just enough to send an unexpected jolt up her arm—reassurance, warning, or possession? She couldn't tell.
The officiant, an elderly gentleman with silver-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat. His voice was steady, reverberating off the marble pillars. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Ethan Blackwood and Scarlett Landon in holy matrimony..."
The words felt distant, like waves lapping at some far shore.
Scarlett stood rigid, her senses focused on Ethan—the faint scent of his cologne, the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shift of weight from foot to foot.
Yet he remained an enigma, guarded behind layers of detachment and practiced indifference.
"Marriage," the officiant continued solemnly, "is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, with deep commitment..."
Scarlett fought back a bitter laugh behind her calm fa?ade. Deep commitment? This was a contract disguised as a ceremony, a merger disguised as a union, a business deal masquerading as a wedding.
The officiant turned to Ethan. "Ethan Blackwood, do you take Scarlett Landon to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
A heartbeat stretched into an eternity.
"I do." Ethan's voice was deep, unwavering, void of warmth but carrying a trace of something else—resolution, maybe.
Then the officiant met Scarlett's gaze, eyes kind but heavy with sympathy. "Scarlett Landon, do you take Ethan Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold..."
Her throat tightened painfully. The weight of every expectant eye was on her—her father's hopeful look, Linda's gentle smile, the Blackwood family's calculating stares. She barely breathed before whispering the two words that would seal her fate. "I do."
"The rings, please," the officiant said.
Lucas, Ethan's cousin and best man, stepped forward with a velvet cushion cradling two platinum bands. He looked like Ethan's shadow—similar features, but with a mischievous glint that softened the seriousness of the moment.
Ethan took the smaller ring first, a delicate circle studded with diamonds that scattered the light like stars. His touch was clinical as he slid it onto Scarlett's finger, a cold shackle dressed as a promise.
"With this ring," he intoned, voice steady and unreadable, "I thee wed."
Scarlett's fingers trembled as she lifted the larger band.
The platinum felt impossibly heavy, as if burdened by the weight of the life it represented.
She slipped it onto Ethan's finger, catching a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes—a momentary lapse before his mask snapped back into place.
"With this ring," she said, her voice stronger now, a subtle rebellion in the echo, "I thee wed."
The officiant smiled broadly, a stark contrast to the tension threading through the room. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." His eyes twinkled as he added, "You may now kiss the bride."
Scarlett froze, panic blooming inside her. The contract had been clear: no physical intimacy without mutual consent. A public kiss was not part of the deal.
Before she could react, Ethan's arm wrapped around her waist with firm authority, pulling her close.
Their bodies hovered inches apart, charged with silent tension.
His breath—warm, faintly minty—brushed her lips.
Then he stopped, mere inches from a kiss, creating the perfect illusion for their audience while obeying the letter of their agreement.
"No, Ethan..." she whispered, eyes wide, panic rising. "It was in the contract... You shouldn't kiss without my permission."
A cold amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes bore into hers. "Do you really think I would kiss you? This is for show, nothing more. So please cooperate". Scarlett stayed still as Ethan mentioned since didn't want to lose her first kiss with him.
He stepped back, his expression unreadable as he faced the applauding crowd. His hand stayed possessive on the small of her back, a public display that felt less like affection and more like ownership.
Cheers and clinking glasses erupted. Camera flashes stuttered like lightning, capturing the moment for society pages and tabloids. Scarlett's smile was practiced, but her eyes never lied.
The reception was an elaborate procession of carefully curated appearances—exquisite dishes she barely tasted, vintage champagne that fizzled on her tongue but failed to soothe. She moved through the crowd like a ghost, nodding, smiling, deflecting intrusive questions with rehearsed grace.
Ethan was always near, his hand occasionally sliding along her back, thumb tracing faint, mechanical circles on the lace of her gown. The gesture seemed intimate to outsiders, but to Scarlett it felt cold, calculated, performative.
"You're doing well," he murmured in a rare moment of privacy, his lips close to her ear. "Keep smiling. Henderson Investments is watching."
No kindness, no reassurance—just business.
"Always the businessman," she whispered back, voice light but sharp. "Even at your own wedding."
His eyes flickered with surprise at her quiet defiance before settling into polite indifference. "It's what brought us here. Don't forget why."
How could she forget? The weight of her family's survival rested on every breath.
At last, the coordinator announced their departure.
Guests lined the grand staircase, tossing rose petals as Scarlett and Ethan descended to the waiting car.
The black Bentley gleamed under the moonlight, adorned with white roses and silver ribbons.
A subtle "Just Married" sign hung at the rear—a nod to tradition in a marriage that defied it.
Scarlett hesitated at the door, reluctant to enter the confined space with a man who was now legally hers, yet a stranger still. The reality of her new life pressed close.
Ethan's hand pressed firmly but gently at her lower back, guiding her forward. "Smile," he reminded her under his breath. "They're still watching."
She slid into the plush leather interior; the rustle of her gown was startlingly loud in the sudden silence. Ethan followed, closing the door with a decisive click that sealed them off from prying eyes.
Once inside, the polished fa?ade cracked. Ethan exhaled sharply, tugging at his bow tie and running a hand through his perfect hair. "Bullshit," he muttered, voice low and raw.
Startled, Scarlett met his gaze. "Excuse me?"
He ignored her question, sliding into the driver's seat and dismissing the waiting chauffeur with a wave. The engine roared to life, a fierce counterpoint to the silence between them.
As the estate's glittering lights faded behind them, Scarlett stared out the window, the enormity of the day settling like a shroud.
She was no longer just Scarlett Landon—she was Scarlett Blackwood, bound by contract, married to a man she barely knew, trapped in a gilded cage of obligations and expectations.
The platinum band on her finger caught the moonlight, cold and unyielding. She twisted it absently, feeling its weight deepen, even though it had only just adorned her hand.
Ethan gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, the silence between them taut and heavy. Legally bound, emotionally distant—they were strangers embarking on a union written in contracts, not love.
Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, Scarlett allowed herself a moment of weakness. A single tear traced a silver line down her cheek before she wiped it away.
This was only the beginning. The life she never wanted, tied to a man whose heart seemed as unreachable as the stars outside. But she had made her choice—or rather, accepted the choice forced upon her.
Now, all she could do was find the strength to live with it—one day at a time.