His Accidental Mrs

The walls of my father’s study used to be lined with framed awards and magazine covers.

Now, they’re just dusty reminders of what used to be.

He sits across from us, behind the desk that once ruled a business empire. His fingers tap the surface, steady and slow. Every tap is a countdown. And when it stops, the silence becomes unbearable.

“I’ve made the decision,” he says.

His voice is tired, but his tone is final.

He doesn’t look at me.

He looks at my sister.

My twin.

Eliora.

“You’ll marry Adrian Donavan.”

Just like that.

Not a request. A command.

Eliora doesn’t flinch. She crosses her legs, raises one brow, and says, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“No, I didn’t. I thought I heard you say you’re marrying me off to a man I don’t know, like it’s 1823.”

My father sighs and stands. His suit is rumpled. He hasn’t shaved. This isn’t the man who once dined with prime ministers.

“This is the deal,” he says. “Donavan invests fifty million into Vaughn Corp. In return, we merge families. Marriage. It’s clean. Simple.”

“It’s disgusting,” Eliora snaps. “You’re selling your daughter.”

“I’m saving my company,” he fires back. “You think I enjoy this? We’re drowning, and I finally have a lifeline. Donavan doesn’t want random shares. He wants blood connection.”

“And you offered mine?”

“You’re not a child. You know how these things work.”

“Do I?”

He slams a folder onto the desk. The contract. Signed. Sealed.

“I already agreed,” he says. “You’ll do it. Or you’ll pack your things and leave this house. I won’t support disloyalty.”

“Damn right you won’t,” she mutters.

I sit frozen. Watching. Breathing. Trying not to take sides even though everything in me wants to scream.

Eliora stands, fists clenched.

“So that’s it? My life’s just a transaction?”

My father doesn’t answer.

Which is answer enough.

Later that night, in our room, she throws open every drawer she owns.

Clothes fly. Shoes hit walls. Zippers rip. Her frustration is loud.

“You’re really going through with it?” I ask.

“I don’t have a choice,” she says. “And neither do you. This affects all of us.”

“You could say no.”

“And be disowned? No thanks. I like eating.”

I help her fold a blouse, but she snatches it back.

“I’m not marrying him because I want to. I’m marrying him because Dad failed. We’re paying for his mistakes.”

“You’re doing it for the family,” I say, trying to comfort her.

“No,” she whispers. “I’m doing it because he left me no other option.”

Vaughn Corp is crumbling. My father is desperate. Godwin Donavan—richer, colder, sharper—offered a bailout disguised as an alliance. His son, Adrian, doesn’t need a partner. He needs a wife to keep the Donavan legacy in the bloodline. Eliora became the price for survival. There was no courtship. No choice. No warmth. Just a dress, a venue, and a signature.

The wedding happens two weeks later 

A rush of arrangements. A blur of silk and secrets.

They don’t call it a wedding. They call it a merger.

I stand beside her in the mirror.

She wears white. The expensive kind. Lace sleeves. High neck. No smile.

“You okay?” I ask.

“No,” she says, and clips in her earrings. “But I will be.”

Dad walks her down the aisle like a man handing over stock.

The guests are powerful. Important. Silent.

No one asks if she’s happy.

No one cares.

Adrian Donavan is tall and clean-cut, with perfectly tailored cuffs and amber eyes that don’t waver. His expression is unreadable—controlled, reserved, perhaps detached. He says his vows like he's reading terms and conditions. His hands are steady, his voice flat. No affection. No emotion.

When it ends, they don’t kiss. They shake hands.

Literally.

It’s not a love story.

It’s a transaction.

The reception is worse. Stiff. Formal. Cold.

I watch them sit side by side, not touching. He speaks only when spoken to. She sips her champagne like it’s poison.

“Any sparks?” I ask when I sneak up beside her briefly.

“Only the ones in my brain trying not to explode,” she says.

Adrian disappears halfway through. No one notices.

Or maybe no one dares ask.

Later, I peek into the suite they’re to share.

The bed’s untouched. The champagne unopened, Two chairs sit by the window, each one empty.

This isn’t a honeymoon.

It's an exile 

The next morning, she comes down for breakfast in a sleek black robe, her hair already tied back.

“Sleep well?” I ask.

She stares into her cup. “He left after midnight. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at me.”

“Maybe he’s nervous.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care.”

She sips her coffee.

“He said we’ll ‘ease into it.’ Like we’re business partners instead of husband and wife.”

“Maybe that’s all he wants,” I say gently.

“Too bad. He’s stuck with me.”

I nod. But something about the way she says it makes my stomach turn.

The housekeeper calls her for a fitting at the Donavan estate. She leaves without a hug. She’s never been the hugging type.

I watch the car drive away.

Black windows. An empty seat beside her. A future that’s already starting to feel like a cage.

She stares out the window like she’s head

ing to her own execution.

She’s married now. To a stranger. For the sake of a father who sold her future to save his past. And none of us know what comes next.