Bound by broken pieces

The smell of roses always made me want to scream.

They looked beautiful, delicate, flawless in the eyes of the world, but I knew better. I knew the thorns that drew blood when you touched them too carelessly. Just like people, roses wore their beauty like a disguise, hiding the pain they carried.

That was why my bouquet slipped from my trembling hands the moment the driver opened the car door for me. White roses. They tumbled onto the stone pavement, petals scattering like broken promises, and all I could think was how perfect it looked for the occasion.

My wedding day.

I swallowed hard, trying not to let the panic show. Everyone was watching me—strangers mostly, men and women dressed in silk and gold, people who knew my last name but didn’t care about the girl wearing it. They weren’t here for me. They were here for the spectacle. For the contract disguised as a marriage.

For the deal my father signed with Kenneth Diego.

“Pick it up, Melinda.” My father’s voice was sharp, cutting through the buzzing in my ears. He stood beside me in his perfectly tailored suit, his smile polished for the cameras, but his eyes… his eyes were cold as steel.

I bent down obediently, fingers brushing against the soft petals. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The bouquet felt heavier now, like it knew what it represented.

A life that wasn’t mine.

A vow I didn’t choose.

A man I didn’t love.

“Stand tall,” Father whispered harshly as he adjusted my veil. “This is not about you. This is about family. Do you understand?”

I nodded, but the truth lodged like a stone in my throat. No one cared about whether I understood. No one cared about whether I wanted this.

The music swelled from inside the grand hall, organ notes echoing like a countdown to my execution. Guests turned toward the doors, their faces expectant, hungry. My chest tightened, and for a moment I thought my legs would give way.

But then the doors opened.

And I walked.

Every step down that endless aisle felt like sinking deeper into quicksand. My gown dragged behind me, its lace hem whispering secrets I couldn’t bear to hear. My veil blurred the faces staring at me, but I could feel their eyes—judging, calculating, whispering about the “poor Diamond girl marrying the broken Diego man.”

And then I saw him.

Kenneth Diego.

He stood at the altar, tall and composed, his dark suit fitting him like a second skin. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, hair that fell slightly over his forehead. He should have looked perfect, the kind of man any woman would dream of marrying.

But he didn’t.

Because his eyes… those eyes were carved from shadows.

Haunted. Cold. Scarred in ways no scar could show.

The whispers had been true. He wasn’t whole, not after what happened with his first marriage. Everyone said he was a man carrying ghosts, that his last wife had broken him in ways no one could repair. And now, he was standing there, waiting for me.

Our gazes met for the first time, and my heart stuttered. Not from love. Not from admiration. But from the raw, unspoken truth in his eyes:

Neither of us wanted this.

Neither of us belonged here.

And yet, here we were.

The officiant’s voice rang out, deep and commanding, pulling me closer to the edge of no return. My father’s grip on my arm tightened before he let go, shoving me gently toward Kenneth as if I were nothing more than a business arrangement handed over.

I wanted to run. God, I wanted to scream, to throw the bouquet back into their perfect faces and tear down the veil suffocating me.

But instead, I stepped closer.

I stood beside Kenneth Diego.

And the world applauded.

I barely heard the words. The vows, the promises, the prayers, everything blurred together like static. My lips moved when they told me to, reciting lines that weren’t mine, sealing a bond I didn’t believe in. My fingers twitched as Kenneth’s hand closed around mine, firm and steady, his skin warm but distant.

A ring slid onto my finger. Cold metal, heavy as chains.

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant declared.

The crowd leaned forward, hungry for spectacle.

Kenneth didn’t move right away. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as if the very thought repulsed him. I felt my cheeks burn under the veil, humiliation pressing down on me like a physical weight.

And then he leaned forward.

His lips brushed mine, barely a kiss, more like a contract sealed with breath. A performance for the audience, nothing more.

The hall erupted in applause. Cameras flashed. Smiles stretched across faces.

And inside, something inside me shattered completely.

The reception was a blur of music, laughter, and clinking glasses. I sat beside Kenneth at the long table, the two of us locked in silence while strangers toasted to our “love.” My father’s voice boomed across the room, praising the union, the strength of our families, the future we were building.

Future.

The word made my stomach twist.

Kenneth didn’t look at me once. He sipped his drink, jaw set, eyes fixed on the distance as though he’d rather be anywhere but here. The scar at the corner of his lip tugged whenever he tightened his mouth, a reminder that he’d lived through something brutal long before me.

I wondered if he was thinking of her.

The wife before me.

The one he couldn’t save.

“Smile,” Father hissed from behind me, his hand pressing lightly on my shoulder as he passed. “Don’t embarrass me, Melinda.”

I forced my lips upward, but the smile cracked before it reached my eyes. Kenneth noticed. His gaze flicked to me briefly, just enough to register my discomfort, before he turned away again.

We were two actors in a play neither of us auditioned for.

And I hated every second of it.

Hours later, when the crowd had finally dispersed and the hall stood silent, I found myself in the backseat of a sleek black car beside Kenneth. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, casting fleeting shadows across his face.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence was suffocating, but I didn’t dare break it. Not yet.

Finally, his voice cut through the stillness. Low, rough, carrying the weight of someone who had forgotten how to be gentle.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

I turned my head slowly, surprised he’d spoken at all. “Pretend?”

His eyes flicked to me, dark and unreadable. “That this is what you wanted. That you’re happy. You’re not. I can see it.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the bouquet still clutched in my lap. The roses were already wilting, petals bruised from the day’s cruelty.

“I didn’t choose this,” I whispered.

A humorless laugh escaped him, sharp and bitter. “Neither did I.”

And in that moment, I realized the truth:

We were strangers bound by broken pieces.

Two scarred souls forced into a union neither of us believed in.

The question wasn’t whether we could survive it.

It was whether we would destroy each other in the process.