Married to the man who despised me

The first thing I noticed was how quiet the house was.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet.

The kind that presses against your ears until you start hearing your own thoughts too loudly.

I stood in front of the mirror, my reflection staring back at me like a stranger dressed in white. The dress was beautiful,expensive, delicate, carefully fitted to a body that didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore. My hands trembled as I smoothed the fabric over my waist, even though there wasn’t a single crease to fix.

I didn’t look like a bride, I looked like an offering.

Someone knocked softly on the door. I flinched, my heart slamming against my ribs as if it was trying to escape before I could be taken somewhere I didn’t want to go.

“Are you ready?” my aunt asked from the other side.

I had learned over the past few weeks that readiness had nothing to do with consent. Decisions were made. Papers were signed. Apologies were whispered and forgotten. And somehow, in the middle of everyone else’s mistakes, I became the solution.

“I’m coming,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

When I stepped outside, the hallway was full. Faces turned toward me.....some curious, some relieved, some pitying. No one asked how I was. No one asked if I was okay.

They just smiled like this was something to celebrate.

The ceremony itself felt unreal, like I was watching it through thick glass. The priest spoke. Vows were exchanged. Rings slid onto fingers. My name sounded foreign when I said it aloud, like it belonged to someone braver.

And then there was him, my husband.

He stood beside me, tall and unreadable, dressed in black like this was a funeral instead of a wedding. His expression never changed, not when we were pronounced husband and wife, not when people applauded, not even when I accidentally brushed my hand against his.

He didn’t look at me, not once.

I told myself not to care. I told myself I didn’t need his attention, his approval, his anything. But the truth sat heavy in my chest: it hurt more than I expected.

When it was over, when the guests dispersed and the congratulations faded, he finally turned to me.

And for the first time that day, our eyes met.

There was no warmth in his gaze. No curiosity. No surprise.

Just contempt.

“You can stop pretending now,” he said quietly, so only I could hear. “This marriage is a formality. Don’t misunderstand it.”

My throat tightened. “I wasn’t pretending.”

His lips curved, not into a smile, but something colder. “You got what you wanted. That should be enough.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this wasn’t something I had chosen, that nothing about today felt like winning.

But the words stayed stuck in my chest.

The car ride to the house was silent. The city lights blurred past the window as I stared outside, counting my breaths to keep from crying. Every time I thought I had composed myself, another sharp ache bloomed in my chest.

This was my life now.

When we arrived, he got out first, not offering his hand, not waiting for me. I followed, clutching my bouquet like a lifeline until my fingers went numb.

The house was massive. Cold. Too perfect.

Inside, he finally spoke again.

“You’ll have your room,” he said. “We’ll appear together when necessary. Other than that, stay out of my way.”

I swallowed. “Is there… anything else I should know?”

He turned to me slowly, his eyes dark and unwavering.

“Yes.” His voice dropped. “Don’t expect kindness from me. I have none to give you.”

Then he walked away.

I stood there long after his footsteps faded, my wedding dress heavy against my skin, my heart heavier still.

That night, alone in a room that didn’t feel like mine, I sat on the edge of the bed and finally let the tears fall.

I didn’t know how long I cried. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime compressed into silence.