Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~9 min read
[MARIUS POV]
I couldn’t sleep.
2 AM in the estate’s east wing guest room—my room until tomorrow when Allegra and I would share the master suite because that’s what newly married couples did—staring at ceiling, replaying the garden conversation.
Aspen. Hired by Dominic to crash my wedding. Ten thousand dollars. Desperate enough to take it, honest enough to confess.
And now we were partners.
Insane. Brilliant. Possibly the worst decision I’d ever made.
Or the best.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Can’t sleep either. Garden in 10?
Had to be her. No one else would text from unknown number at 2 AM the night before my wedding.
I should ignore it. Should sleep. Should prepare for tomorrow’s carefully orchestrated disaster like a responsible adult conspiring to destroy his own wedding.
Instead I texted back: See you there.
The estate was silent. Security made rounds every hour—I’d memorized the schedule years ago, back when I’d dreamed of escape but never acted. 2 AM was safe. Guards wouldn’t circle back until 3.
I slipped out through the service stairs. Avoided main corridors. Reached the garden without encountering anyone.
Aspen was already there. Same spot as earlier. By the fountain with its excessive landscaping and inherited wealth.
She’d changed from professional clothes to jeans and hoodie. Braids down instead of tied back. More herself. Less performance.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
“Kept thinking about tomorrow. About—everything.” She sat on the fountain’s edge. “This is insane.”
“Completely.”
“We’re really doing this.”
“We are.”
“Your family will hate me.”
“They’ll hate both of us.” I sat beside her. “My mother will cry. My father will threaten legal action. Allegra will—actually, Allegra might be relieved.”
“You think?”
“Six years engaged to someone you don’t love? Yeah, she’ll be relieved. Eventually. After the public humiliation fades.”
Aspen pulled her knees up. “Tell me about the contract. The arrangement. How does someone get trapped in arranged marriage in 2024?”
“Money and tradition.” I touched my beard—nervous habit, apparently obvious enough that she’d noted it in her research. “My grandfather emigrated from Mumbai in the seventies. Built property empire from nothing. Very traditional. Very—concerned about family legacy. Before he died, he signed contract with Julius Thornton-Webb: Khatri Properties and Thornton Capital would merge through marriage. Me and Allegra. Combining two companies, two fortunes, two families.”
“That’s medieval.”
“That’s business.” I looked at the fountain. “I was twenty-five when he died. In my first year running European acquisitions. Father sat me down, explained the contract, said: ‘Sign this and secure the company for the next generation. Refuse and watch everything Grandfather built collapse.'”
“So you signed.”
“I signed. And I’ve been engaged to Allegra ever since. Six years of scheduled dinners and public appearances and pretending this is what I chose.”
“Why not just—break the contract?”
“Financial penalties would destroy both families. Grandfather structured it carefully. If I back out, Khatri Properties pays Thornton Capital twenty million pounds. If Allegra backs out, they pay us. Neither family can afford the penalty without significant damage.”
“Jesus.”
“So we’re both trapped. Her by family expectation and social capital. Me by duty and guilt and—” I laughed bitterly. “And the fact that I signed the damn thing myself. Can’t even blame anyone else. I trapped myself at twenty-five because I was too dutiful to refuse.”
Silence except fountain water.
“What would you have done?” Aspen asked quietly. “If you’d said no at twenty-five. If you’d chosen yourself.”
“Art school. Architecture. Photography.” The confession felt strange. I never told anyone this. “I wanted to study at Architectural Association. Design buildings that mattered. Create instead of just—managing family empire. But Father said that was hobby, not career. Said real men build businesses, not dreams.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s family.”
“Not all families are like that.”
“Yours isn’t?”
She smiled sadly. “My mom was—before the Alzheimer’s—she was high school art teacher. Always encouraged creativity. Always said do what makes you happy. Then she got sick at fifty-three and I had to drop out of grad school to care for her and accumulate eighty thousand in debt and—” Her voice cracked. “And now she doesn’t remember me. Doesn’t remember the daughter who gave up everything to care for her. So no, my family isn’t cruel. But it’s still—broken. Just differently broken.”
I wanted to touch her hand. Didn’t. We were strangers conspiring, not friends.
But she felt like—something. Understanding. Connection. Recognition of shared traps.
“What were you studying?” I asked. “Grad school.”
“Journalism. Investigative reporting. Wanted to expose corruption and corporate evil and—make a difference. Instead I’m crashing weddings for money.” She laughed without humor. “Real journalistic integrity there.”
“You’re surviving. That’s not weakness.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s practical.” I looked at her properly. “You’re doing what you have to for someone you love. That’s—admirable. Complicated and morally gray, but admirable.”
“You’re doing the same thing. Except your someone is—yourself. You’re sabotaging your own wedding to save yourself.”
Was I? Or was I just running?
“Maybe,” I admitted. “Or maybe I’m finally choosing something. Anything. Even if the choice is destruction.”
“Destruction as agency.”
“Exactly.”
We sat in comfortable silence. Two people who shouldn’t understand each other but somehow did.
“Tell me about the ceremony,” Aspen said. “Walk me through exactly what happens. So tomorrow I know—when to enter. How to make it—real.”
Planning. Practical. Focusing on execution instead of philosophy.
“Ceremony starts at 2 PM,” I said. “Three hundred guests in the south garden. Allegra enters at 2:15—fashionably late, very her. Officiant welcomes everyone. Standard wedding script. Ten minutes of readings and blessings. Then vows. Then rings. Then—” I paused. “Then the officiant asks: ‘If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.'”
“That’s my cue.”
“That’s your cue. Doors are at the back of the seating area. You’ll enter there—dramatic, impossible to miss. All eyes on you immediately.”
“What do I say?”
“Whatever feels natural. But include the affair claim. Two years ago in New York. Show the evidence if challenged. Make it—painful. Emotional. Like you’re heartbroken woman who can’t let me marry wrong person.”
“Method acting my own desperation.”
“Yes.” I met her eyes. “It needs to look real. Feel real. If people doubt you, it doesn’t work. The scandal has to be convincing.”
“How do you react?”
“Shock. Denial. But not too convincing—just enough to plant doubt. My family will demand explanation. Allegra will be furious. It’ll—escalate quickly.”
“And then?”
“Chaos. Security will try to remove you. Guests will be filming. Media will arrive within hours. The wedding collapses. Both families retreat to handle PR disaster. You collect your money from Dominic. I pack my things and—” I paused. “And leave. Finally.”
“Where will you go?”
Good question. I’d been planning escape for years but never committed. Never actually chosen destination.
“Don’t know. Somewhere not London. Somewhere my family can’t find me immediately. Somewhere I can—breathe.”
“That sounds nice.” She smiled slightly. “Breathing. I remember breathing.”
I laughed despite everything. “When did we both stop?”
“Years ago. Different reasons. Same result.”
The recognition felt profound. We were different people from different worlds. But we understood drowning.
“After tomorrow,” I said, “you’ll breathe. Ten thousand dollars. Your mother’s care paid. Rent covered. Space to—exist.”
“After tomorrow you’ll breathe too. No wedding. No arranged marriage. Freedom.”
“If it works.”
“It’ll work. We’ve planned everything.”
“Except contingencies. What if security removes you before you can present evidence? What if my family convinces everyone you’re lying? What if—”
“What if Dominic doesn’t pay me?” Aspen finished. “What if your family cuts you off completely? What if we both end up worse than we started? Yeah, I’ve thought about all that.”
“And?”
“And I’m still doing it. Because doing nothing is worse. Staying trapped is worse. Drowning slowly is worse than—than swimming toward something. Even if that something is chaos.”
She was right.
“To chaos then,” I said.
“To chaos.”
We sat until 3 AM. Planning contingencies. Refining the performance. Building conspiracy into careful choreography.
At some point our hands ended up close. Not touching. Just—near. Present.
“I should go,” Aspen said finally. “Ada wants me at 8 AM. Need at least a few hours sleep.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Small inn in the village. Ten minutes away.”
“Alone?”
“Is that concern or surveillance?”
“Concern. If Dominic finds out you told me—”
“He won’t. No one knows I’m here except you.” She stood. “Besides, he’s not violent. Just rich and manipulative. Different kind of dangerous.”
“Still dangerous.”
“I can handle him.” She pulled her hood up. “Question is: can you handle tomorrow? The performance? Watching your wedding explode?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
She smiled. Actually smiled. “Good answer.”
She started walking toward the gates. Stopped. Turned back.
“Marius?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For—not having me arrested. For making this conspiracy instead of ambush. For—choosing trust.”
“Thank you for telling me. For giving me choice instead of just executing.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
She disappeared into estate shadows.
I sat by the fountain for another hour. Thinking. Processing. Panicking slightly.
Tomorrow at 2 PM, my wedding would explode. My family would hate me. My life would detonate. Everything I’d built for thirty-one years would collapse.
And I couldn’t wait.
Because collapse was choice. Destruction was agency. Chaos was—
Was swimming instead of drowning.
Even if I didn’t know where the shore was.
My phone buzzed. Rhys.
You’re awake. I can see your light. You ok?
Not even slightly.
Second thoughts?
No. First actual thoughts in six years.
Good. For what it’s worth: I’m proud of you. Whatever happens tomorrow.
Nothing’s happening tomorrow. Just a wedding.
Sure. “Just a wedding.” That’s why you’re awake at 3 AM.
He knew. Somehow he knew. Not details. But he knew I was planning something.
Go to sleep, little brother.
You too. Big day tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to miss it.
I didn’t sleep.
Just sat by the fountain until dawn. Planning. Preparing. Committing.
Tomorrow my life would detonate.
Tomorrow I’d finally choose something.
Even if that something was chaos.
Even if everyone hated me.
Even if I lost everything.
At least I’d lose it on purpose.
At least destruction would be mine.
At least—
At least I’d finally be free.
Whatever that cost.
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