Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~9 min read
[ASPEN POV]
We couldn’t go back to the estate. Couldn’t go to my inn—media would find us. Couldn’t go anywhere connected to our real lives.
So we found an anonymous hotel off the motorway. The kind that asked no questions and accepted cash. The kind where people escaped to.
Marius checked us in under fake names while I hid in the car, red dress covered by his jacket. The woman at the desk barely looked up.
Room 247. Two double beds. Generic furniture. The opposite of Thornton Estate luxury.
Perfect.
We stumbled inside. Locked the door. Stood in the middle of the room staring at each other like we couldn’t quite believe what we’d done.
“We destroyed your wedding,” I said.
“We did.”
“Your family will never forgive you.”
“I know.”
“Dominic might not pay me.”
“I will.”
“This is insane.”
“Completely.”
The space between us crackled with adrenaline and fear and something else. Something that had been building since the garden. Since the conspiracy. Since—
Since we recognized each other as desperate people choosing chaos over drowning.
My phone was exploding. Forty-seven missed calls. Bailey. Unknown numbers. Dominic calling repeatedly.
I turned it off.
Marius did the same with his. “They’ll find us eventually. But not tonight.”
“What do we do until then?”
“Don’t know.” He pulled off his bow tie. Unbuttoned his collar. Looking less like aristocratic groom and more like man who’d just escaped execution. “I’ve never—I’ve never done this before. Escaped. Run. I always stayed. Always performed. Always—”
“Always drowned,” I finished.
“Yes.”
I kicked off my heels. Painful after hours of standing. “Me neither. Running. I always stayed too. Stayed in debt. Stayed in drowning. Stayed—trapped. Until today.”
“Until today we both chose chaos.”
“And now we’re here. Hotel room off the motorway. No plan. No—”
He kissed me again.
Different from the car. Not desperate escape. Just—want. Clear. Intentional. Choice.
I kissed him back. Hands in his hair. His hands on my waist. The red dress suddenly too much fabric between us.
“We don’t have to,” he said against my mouth. “This is—we just escaped disaster. Adrenaline. We don’t—”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
We fell into bed. The closer one. His jacket hitting the floor. My dress unzipping. His shirt unbuttoning. Skin on skin on skin. Heat and hunger and the release of two days of tension and conspiracy and fear.
He was careful. Gentle despite urgency. Asking permission with every escalation. “This okay?” “Yes.” “And this?” “Yes. God, yes.”
When we finally came together it felt like—freedom. Like choosing each other. Like the conspiracy becoming something else. Something real instead of performative.
After, we lay tangled in hotel sheets, breathing hard, reality crashing back.
“That was—” he started.
“Yeah.”
“We should probably talk about—”
“Definitely.”
But neither of us moved. Just lay there in the wreckage of the day and our clothes and our former lives.
My phone—still off—sat on the nightstand like ticking bomb. His beside it. Both waiting to detonate.
“Tell me about your mother,” Marius said quietly. “Really tell me. Not desperate summary while explaining why you took the job. Actually tell me.”
So I did.
Told him about Mom when I was growing up. Art teacher. Creative. Warm. The kind of mother who encouraged dreams. Who said “do what makes you happy” and meant it.
Told him about the Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Early-onset. Fifty-three years old. Devastating. Cruel.
Told him about dropping out of grad school to care for her. Watching her forget—slowly, then all at once. Names. Faces. Memories. Me.
“Last visit,” I said, voice breaking, “she asked who I was. So polite. Like I was stranger intruding on her day. And I had to explain: ‘I’m Aspen. Your daughter.’ And she smiled and said ‘that’s a pretty name’ like she’d never heard it before. Like I hadn’t been saying it my whole life. Like—like I was no one.”
Marius pulled me closer. “I’m sorry. That’s—god, I’m so sorry.”
“The facility I can afford—Maplewood—they’re good. Kind. They know her name even if she doesn’t. They treat her like person instead of patient. But it costs twenty-eight hundred a month. I was drowning. Working three jobs. Still drowning. And then Dominic offered ten thousand and I—” I looked at him. “I sold my ethics for my mother’s care. That’s the truth. I’m not good person forced into bad situation. I’m person who chose money over morals.”
“You chose survival,” he corrected. “You chose your mother. That’s not evil. That’s human.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” He touched my face. “Aspen, you’re allowed to be desperate. Allowed to make hard choices. Allowed to—survive however you can. That doesn’t make you bad. That makes you strong.”
I wanted to believe him.
“Your turn,” I said. “Tell me about your life. Really tell me. Not arranged marriage summary. Actually tell me.”
So he did.
Told me about growing up Khatri heir. Expectations from birth. Perfect grades. Perfect behavior. Perfect—everything. No room for deviation. No space for self.
Told me about discovering architecture at fifteen. Photography at sixteen. Falling in love with creation. With building things. With art.
Told me about applying to Architectural Association without telling his father. Getting accepted. Planning escape.
“I was eighteen,” he said. “Had acceptance letter in my hand. Full scholarship. Everything I wanted. And Father found out. Sat me down and said: ‘Real men build businesses, not dreams. You’ll join the company or you’ll be disowned. Choose.'”
“What did you choose?”
“Company. I was eighteen and terrified of losing my family. So I chose Oxford. Business degree. Family duty. Everything Father wanted. And I’ve been performing ever since. Thirteen years of—existing without living.”
“Until today.”
“Until today.” He looked at me. “You gave me permission to explode. To choose chaos. To finally—stop performing.”
“You gave me the same thing.”
We lay in silence. Two people who’d destroyed everything to save each other. To save ourselves.
“What happens now?” I asked. “After tonight. After—this. What do we do?”
“Don’t know. Tomorrow both families will demand explanations. Lawyers will get involved. Media will make us villains. Dominic will—” He paused. “Actually, what will Dominic do? You went off-script telling me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he still pays me. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he—retaliates somehow.”
“If he retaliates, I protect you.”
“Why? You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes I do. You risked everything for my escape. I’m not letting you face consequences alone.”
The certainty in his voice made my chest tight. We were strangers forty-eight hours ago. Now we were—
What? Allies? Partners? Something more?
“I should call Bailey,” I said. “She’s probably losing her mind.”
“Later. Right now just—” He pulled me closer. “Right now just exist. With me. In this moment before everything gets complicated again.”
So I did.
Existed in the moment. In the hotel room. In the aftermath of destruction. With man I’d met two days ago and somehow understood completely.
We talked until midnight. About everything. About dreams we’d abandoned. About lives we’d never lived. About—futures. Hypothetical futures where we weren’t drowning. Weren’t trapped. Weren’t—
Weren’t who we’d been forced to become.
“If you could do anything,” Marius asked, “anything at all, no money problems, no obligations—what would you do?”
“Investigative journalism. Real journalism. Exposing corruption. Corporate evil. Holding powerful people accountable. Making—difference.”
“You’d be good at that. You’re observant. Strategic. Honest despite everything.”
“What would you do?” I asked.
“Architecture. Real architecture. Designing buildings that matter. Public spaces. Community centers. Things that improve lives instead of just—storing wealth. And photography. Capturing people. Moments. Truth.”
“You photographed buildings at that conference in Barcelona. The one real photo I found.”
“You saw that?”
“During research. You looked—alive. Present. Like you were doing what you loved instead of what you were supposed to do.”
“I was. For exactly one weekend. Then Father called me back to London for ‘urgent business’ that turned out to be arranging my engagement. And I’ve been—” He stopped. “I’ve been dead for six years. Just functioning. Just—drowning.”
“Not anymore.”
“Not anymore.”
We fell asleep tangled together. Exhausted. Relieved. Terrified of tomorrow but grateful for tonight.
I woke once—3 AM, disoriented—to Marius photographing me with his phone.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “You looked—real. Had to capture it.”
“I’m messy. Hair everywhere. No makeup.”
“Exactly. Real.”
I fell back asleep smiling.
When I woke again—7 AM, sunlight through terrible hotel curtains—reality crashed back.
Phones still off. But they couldn’t stay off forever.
Marius was awake. Watching me. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“We should probably turn phones on.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
“Whatever’s on those phones,” he said, “whatever happened while we were ignoring the world—we face it together. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
I turned my phone on first. It exploded.
Eighty-three missed calls. Hundred-plus texts. Voicemails full. Email overflowing.
Bailey: ASPEN WHERE ARE YOU. I SAW THE NEWS. CALL ME NOW.
Unknown numbers. Media requests. Legal threats.
And Dominic: You went off-script. We need to talk. Today.
Marius’s phone was worse. Family calling repeatedly. Lawyers. Media. Everyone demanding explanations.
One text from Rhys stood out: Whatever you did, I’m proud of you. Call me when you can. I’ll help however possible.
“We’re viral,” Marius said, scrolling through news alerts.
He showed me his phone. Headlines everywhere:
SOCIETY WEDDING EXPLODES: Mystery Woman Claims Affair with Khatri Heir
Marius Khatri’s Wedding Halted by Scandal
BREAKING: Allegra Thornton-Webb Admits She Didn’t Want Marriage Either
Who Is Aspen Colby? Mystery Woman Behind Wedding Scandal
Photos of me. In the red dress. Objecting. Photos somehow making me look calculating. Dangerous. Gold-digger.
Comments were savage:
“She’s clearly lying for attention”
“Gold digger targeting old money”
“Khatri family should sue her into oblivion”
“This is bad,” I said.
“This is disaster,” he agreed. “And it’s about to get worse.”
Because now families knew where to find us. Now media had our names. Now lawyers would mobilize. Now—
Now consequences arrived.
But we’d expected that.
We’d chosen this.
And we’d face it together.
Whatever came next.
Partners in chaos. Allies in destruction. Maybe—
Maybe something more.
But first: Shower. Coffee. Armor.
Because today we’d face the wreckage we’d created.
Together.
Reader Reactions