Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~10 min read
I’m getting married, and all I can think about is her.
Not the woman about to walk down the aisle toward me. Not Sloane, with her perfect smile and her father’s business empire and her complete understanding of what this marriage really is.
No. I’m thinking about hazel eyes and warm laughter and the way Emilia used to curl into me on lazy Sunday mornings, her hair tickling my chest, her body fitting against mine like she was made for me.
I’m thinking about the biggest mistake of my life.
“You good, man?” Ezra murmurs beside me.
I adjust my cufflinks for the third time. Old habit. Nervous tell. “Yeah.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re about to marry a woman you don’t love to save a business merger. That’s not fine, that’s a fucking tragedy.”
I shoot him a look. “Not helping.”
“I’m your best man. I’m supposed to tell you the truth.” He pauses. “It’s not too late to walk away.”
But it is. It’s been too late since the moment I chose duty over love two years ago. Since I walked away from the only woman who ever made me feel like I was more than just my father’s son, more than the Blackwood heir, more than a strategic asset to be deployed in the family’s endless chess game of wealth and power.
The cathedral is packed. I can feel the weight of all those eyes, all those expectations. My father in the front row, jaw set with satisfaction. My mother beside him, her expression carefully neutral. This is what they wanted. What they pushed for. What they’ve been orchestrating since the merger started falling apart.
“Asher Blackwood marries Sloane Covington, the deal closes, everyone wins.”
Everyone except me.
Except Emilia.
I wonder where she is right now. If she’s happy. If she ever thinks about what we had. If she hates me as much as I hate myself for how I ended things.
God, the way I ended things.
I can still see her face. The moment when hope died in her eyes, when she realized I was actually choosing this—this hollow, empty future—over her. Over us.
“Fight for us!”
But I didn’t. I let her go. Told myself it was for the best, that she deserved better than being trapped in my world, that I was doing her a favor.
All lies. I was a coward. I chose the easy path, the expected path. I did what Blackwood heirs have always done—I put the family first.
And I’ve regretted it every single day since.
The string quartet shifts to a new piece. The processional will start soon. I force my shoulders back, my expression into something resembling calm. This is it. The point of no return.
Although really, that point was two years ago. I’ve just been running toward this moment ever since.
“You remember when we were kids,” Ezra says quietly, “and you used to talk about falling in love? Real love, not arranged marriages and strategic alliances. You said you’d never end up like your parents.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, well. We all grow up.”
“That’s not growing up. That’s giving up.”
“Drop it, Ezra.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I mean it. Drop it.” My voice comes out harsher than intended. I breathe, soften my tone. “It’s done. This is happening.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the pity in his eyes. I hate it. Hate that my best friend feels sorry for me on my wedding day. Hate that he’s right to feel that way.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think you’re making a mistake.”
“Noted.”
The music swells. The guests stand, turning toward the back of the cathedral. This is it. Showtime.
I turn to face the aisle, and my heart is a dead weight in my chest.
Sloane appears in the doorway, a vision in white. She’s objectively beautiful—blonde hair perfectly styled, dress probably designed by someone whose name I should know, smile practiced and pristine. She looks exactly like what she is: the perfect society bride.
We’ve dated for six months. Well, “dated” is generous. We’ve attended events together, been photographed for society pages, played the part of the perfect couple. We’ve kissed—perfunctory, passionless pecks that felt more like sealing a business deal than expressing affection.
I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me. We’ve never pretended otherwise.
This marriage is a merger. Our wedding night will probably involve reviewing quarterly reports.
She begins her walk down the aisle, her father beside her. Atticus Covington looks smug. He should be. He’s about to lock down the Blackwood company’s resources and reputation through marriage. Smart business.
Sloane’s eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing there. No warmth, no joy, no love. Just… calculation. She’s getting what she wants too—the Blackwood name, the social elevation, the partnership of two powerful families.
Everyone wins.
Except I can’t breathe.
The cathedral is too hot, too crowded, too suffocating. My collar feels like it’s strangling me. I want to run. Want to bolt for the side door and keep running until I hit the ocean, until I’m somewhere Emilia might be, until I can find her and beg her to forgive me.
But I don’t. Because that’s not what Blackwood heirs do.
Sloane reaches the altar. Her father places her hand in mine. Her fingers are cool, impersonal. Not like Emilia’s, which were always warm, always reaching for me, always making me feel anchored and alive.
I need to stop thinking about Emilia. It’s not fair to her, to Sloane, to anyone.
But I can’t.
The officiant begins speaking. His voice washes over me, meaningless sounds. I’m supposed to be listening, supposed to be present for this moment. But my mind is miles away, years away, in a small apartment where I used to be happy.
Emilia making coffee in one of my shirts, dancing in the kitchen, laughing at something stupid I said. The way she’d look at me like I hung the moon, like I was someone worth loving just for myself, not for my name or my money or my usefulness.
The way I threw it all away.
“Marriage is a sacred bond,” the officiant intones.
Sacred. Right. This marriage is about as sacred as a corporate takeover. Less, maybe.
I glance at Sloane. She’s staring straight ahead, her expression serene. Does this bother her at all? Does she care that we’re about to vow our lives to each other without a shred of real feeling between us?
Probably not. Sloane is practical. Sloane understands the game. That’s why my father approved of her.
Emilia would have hated this. The spectacle, the pretense, the hollow performance of it all. Emilia believed in real things. Love, passion, choosing each other every day.
God, I miss her.
“The couple has chosen to speak their own vows,” the officiant says.
Right. The vows. Sloane and I wrote them together last week, sitting in her father’s study with glasses of expensive wine neither of us touched. We kept them brief, generic, carefully worded to sound romantic without actually meaning anything.
I should have refused. Should have told them I couldn’t stand here and lie. But I didn’t, because I never do. I never stand up to my father, never fight for what I want, never—
A baby cries somewhere in the back of the cathedral.
It’s brief, quickly hushed, but something about it makes my chest ache. I’ll never have that. Never have a family built on love, never hold my own child, never experience any of the things I used to dream about when I imagined my future.
This is my future now. Cold business arrangements and separate bedrooms and a lifetime of wondering what if.
Focus. I need to focus.
Sloane is looking at me expectantly. Right. My vows.
I clear my throat. “Sloane, today we begin a partnership that will—”
Partnership. I’m calling my marriage a partnership. Could I be more pathetic?
I push through, reciting the carefully crafted words. Sloane smiles at all the right moments. The guests probably think we’re perfect together. They don’t see the emptiness, the resignation, the quiet desperation of two people who are settling for the life they’re supposed to want instead of the life they actually do.
Sloane says her vows. They’re equally meaningless, equally pretty. She could be reading a business contract for all the emotion in her voice.
When she finishes, the officiant smiles. “Beautiful. Now, before we continue, I must ask—” He turns to address the congregation. “If anyone has objections to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
It’s ceremonial. Nobody ever actually objects. This is the part where everyone stays silent and we move on to the rings and the kiss and the rest of my hollow life.
I wait for the silence.
But something prickles at the back of my neck. Some instinct I can’t name.
I resist the urge to turn around, to scan the crowd. For what? For her? Emilia doesn’t even know I’m getting married today. Why would she? I haven’t spoken to her in two years. For all I know, she’s moved on, found someone who deserves her, built a beautiful life that doesn’t include the memory of me ruining everything.
The silence stretches.
See? Nobody objects. Of course they don’t. This wedding has been in the society pages for months. Everyone who matters approves. This is exactly what’s supposed to happen.
So why does it feel so wrong?
The officiant opens his mouth to continue—
“I object.”
The voice rings out from the back of the cathedral. Female. Familiar. Impossible.
Time stops.
My entire body goes rigid. That voice. I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my dreams every night for two years, whispered my name in the dark, told me she loved me, broke when I broke her heart.
No.
It can’t be.
But I’m already turning, my body moving before my brain can process what’s happening.
And there, standing in the back of the cathedral with every eye in the building turning toward her, is Emilia.
My Emilia.
Except she’s not mine anymore. I gave up that right when I chose this cathedral, this bride, this life.
She’s walking down the aisle. Toward me. Her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that strips away every defense I’ve built.
And she’s holding something.
Someone.
A baby.
A little boy with dark curly hair and skin a beautiful blend of her warm honey tone and something lighter. He can’t be more than a year and a half old, dressed in a tiny button-down shirt, looking around with wide, curious eyes.
Eyes that are hazel. Like mine. Exactly like mine.
The cathedral erupts in gasps and whispers, but I can’t hear any of it. Can’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears, the thundering of my heart, the sound of my entire world tilting on its axis.
Emilia keeps walking. Keeps coming toward me. And that little boy—
No.
Oh God.
No.
“This is Miles,” Emilia’s voice shakes, but she doesn’t stop moving. “Your son.”
The words detonate like a bomb.
And my life, the life I thought I knew, the life I’ve been sleepwalking through for two years, shatters into a million pieces.
Reader Reactions