The Wedding of Strangers
The bells of St. Benedict's Cathedral rang softly through the crisp London air, echoing across the marble aisles and white roses that lined the path to the altar.
To the world, it was a grand society wedding — the union of two powerful families, the Harts and the Blackwoods. To Lila, it was a quiet storm she couldn't escape.
Her reflection in the bridal suite's mirror looked breathtaking — the satin gown hugging her frame, her hair pinned with pearls, her veil like a whisper of clouds. Yet behind her calm eyes lay a heart that felt hollow.
Her mother fussed over her makeup while photographers waited outside. "You look stunning, darling. Remember, smile. The world is watching."
Lila forced a smile. "Yes, Mother."
When the doors opened, music swelled — a hauntingly beautiful string melody. Her father offered his arm; she took it mechanically. Each step down the aisle felt heavy, her eyes fixed on the man waiting at the altar.
Ethan Blackwood stood tall, a figure of polished composure in his black tuxedo. He looked like he belonged to a different world — poised, proud, untouchable. His expression was unreadable, but when she reached him, he nodded slightly, a small acknowledgment that almost felt like reassurance.
They exchanged vows, their voices steady but distant.
"I, Ethan, take you, Lila…"
"I, Lila, take you, Ethan…"
The priest's words blurred into a hum, and before she knew it, the ring was on her finger — a delicate circle of gold that felt heavier than iron.
When Ethan leaned in to kiss her, it was brief and restrained, more an agreement than affection. The cameras flashed. Guests clapped politely. And just like that, Lila Hart became Mrs. Lila Blackwood.
The reception was a whirlwind of smiles and champagne. Lila danced when asked, spoke when spoken to, and laughed when expected. Ethan remained by her side — polite, distant, always aware of the eyes watching.
At one point, she caught him looking at her. Just a flicker — curiosity? Regret? She couldn't tell.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, when they were finally alone on the balcony.
She nodded, eyes fixed on the night skyline. "I'm… trying to be."
He leaned on the railing beside her, the city lights reflecting in his sharp blue eyes. "You don't have to pretend with me, Lila. I know you didn't want this either."
Her voice came out barely a whisper. "Then why did you go through with it?"
He sighed, glancing down at the gold band on his finger. "My mother's health has been failing for months. She wanted to see me married before…" His words trailed off, heavy with unspoken grief. "She believes this marriage will give her peace. I couldn't deny her that."
Lila looked at him, her heart softening despite herself. "You did it for her."
He nodded. "And you?"
"For my parents," she admitted. "They think marrying you means stability — respectability. I didn't want to disappoint them."
For the first time that day, something unspoken connected them — two people bound by duty, not desire, carrying the weight of others' expectations.
Ethan looked at her again, his expression unreadable. "At least we understand each other," he said softly. "We'll keep it civil. You'll have your space; I'll have mine. We can coexist without pretending."
A lump rose in her throat. It wasn't unkind, just practical. But hearing it still hurt.
"Of course," she whispered, forcing a small smile.
That night, in the quiet expanse of Ethan's penthouse, the reality of her new life sank in.
The driver had dropped them off in silence, the staff already dismissed for privacy. The penthouse was breathtaking — glass walls overlooking the Thames, sleek marble floors, everything immaculate. Too immaculate. It didn't feel lived in.
Ethan showed her to the guest room. "You can use this space," he said, his tone polite but detached. "I'll have your things brought in tomorrow."
She nodded, standing awkwardly by the door. "Thank you."
For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was heavy with everything they didn't know how to say.
"Good night, Lila," he said finally.
"Good night, Ethan."
When the door closed, she sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of her gown pressing against her chest. Through the window, the city glittered — alive, indifferent.
She unpinned her veil, tears slipping down her cheeks in silence.
Somewhere across the hall, Ethan stood by his own window, his reflection staring back at him — a man who had everything yet felt utterly empty.
He'd done the right thing, he told himself. But for the first time in years, Ethan Blackwood wasn't sure what "right" meant anymore.