paper vows, glass hearts

I stood frozen beneath the shade of a jacaranda tree, its fallen blossoms a soft purple halo around the heels of my muddy shoes. My heart pounded in my chest, but it sounded like an echo in an empty room. Distant and unfamiliar.

I had almost been sold.

Not literally, of course. But the way Reagan spoke earlier... the way his grandfather looked at me like I was a last-minute solution on an auction block... I knew exactly where I stood.

To them, I was nothing but a backup plan. A shadow of Tiara.

And that hurt more than I ever imagined it would.

Someone called my name from far off, but I didn’t answer. I just walked faster, heading to the narrow side corridor of the church that led into the garden. The sounds of frantic guests faded behind me, replaced by birdsong and the soft brush of wind against my cold, clammy skin.

I didn’t know where I was going. Or what I was supposed to do.

Then—soft footsteps behind me.

“Sweetheart…”

That voice. The one that could bring down all my walls with a single word.

I turned.

Mom stood there in an elegant pale lemon dress. Her hair was pulled back simply, her face lined not with age, but with a heart too often broken by this family. Still, her eyes were gentle. And searching.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer was no.

I didn’t reply. My lips parted slightly, but the words caught in my throat.

She walked closer, then sat down on a small garden bench nearby. Gently, she patted the space beside her.

I hesitated. But eventually, I sat. Neither of us spoke for a moment.

“I never thought Tiara would just walk away like that,” Mom said at last, her voice filled more with sorrow than anger.

I nodded. “Me neither.”

“And… Reagan?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “He still wants to get married. To me.”

She didn’t react the way I expected. No shock. No fury. Just silence… and a deep sigh.

“His grandfather?” she guessed.

I looked at her, surprised. “You know?”

She gave me a knowing look. “Sweetheart… I’ve been around long enough to know that in wealthy families, politics is like a second breath. They don’t marry for love. They marry for strategy.”

The words stung more than I wanted to admit. I hugged myself, trying to hold the trembling in.

“They think I’m replaceable,” I whispered. “Tiara runs, and now it’s just… ‘Well, Tara’s close enough.’”

Mom rubbed my back gently. “You’re more than ‘close enough,’ Tara. You… are you.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. I bowed my head, shoulders rising and falling quietly.

“They want me to marry a man who—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too tangled.

Too heavy.

Reagan. The man I once fell for.

The man who loved my twin sister.

The man who never looked at me the way he looked at her.

Mom was quiet for a while, then said, “If you want to leave, we’ll go. Right now. I don’t care about scandal. I don’t care about the company. I don’t care what anyone thinks. What matters is that you stay whole.”

Her words hit me like warm air on an open wound. But I knew… I couldn’t only think about myself.

I thought of my father : obsessed with reputation. Our extended family : ready to blame Mom if I also ran. And the media...ready to tear Tiara apart if no one took her place.

I closed my eyes.

Exhaled the weight in my chest.

“Mom… if I say yes,” I said quietly, like a confession, “it’s not because I want to be Reagan’s wife. It’s because I want to protect you.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then wrapped her arms around me. Warm. Fierce. Safe.

“And that’s enough,” she whispered. “You’re allowed to choose your reason. Just make sure it’s your choice, not someone else’s.”

:::

I stood in front of the tall mirror embedded in the wall of the prep room. The chandelier’s warm light reflected off the glass, making my skin look paler than usual. The bridesmaid dress was gone, replaced by a wedding gown bought in under fifteen minutes by Reagan’s family.

The wooden door creaked open.

I half-turned, and like fog lifting from a cold morning, he appeared.

Reagan De Russo.

Calm and elegant as always, now fully dressed in his groom’s suit. His hair slicked back neatly. His expression… empty, like a sky without stars.

His gaze locked on me. Up and down. Studying me like an architect inspecting a renovated structure.

“You’ve changed. You’re not the Tara from five years ago.”

I squared my shoulders. “And you’re still Reagan, always judging when no one asked.”

He smirked, casually. As if we were discussing wine preferences at a party, not an emergency wedding prompted by his fiancée running off with another man.

“Touché,” he said softly. “But I mean it. You’re sharper now. Less predictable.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the war drum in my chest. “If you came here to convince me… don’t waste your time.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re walking into if you say ‘yes’ out there.”

I turned sharply toward him.

“My grandfather isn’t a patient man. He thinks everything can be bought, manipulated, or sacrificed in the name of reputation. This wedding isn’t about us. It’s about the De Russo image and the businesses hanging by its thread.”

I said nothing. Our eyes met briefly.

“And you?” I asked. “Why agree to this? You could’ve left. Canceled everything. But you chose—”

“—I chose to stay,” he cut in. “Because someone had to face the fallout. Tiara ran. I stayed. And now… you’re here.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Sounds romantic. If this wasn’t a high-budget soap opera.”

He looked at me, deeply. “I’m not asking you to fall in love, Tara. I’m just asking you to stand beside me. Today.”

And somehow… that hurt even more.

I held my breath and turned back to the mirror. This dress didn’t look like the dream I once had about weddings. No fireworks. No love. Just glass, shadows, and a reality too sharp to touch.

Reagan stepped back. “Think it through. The church doors open in fifteen minutes.”

:::

I walked slowly into the small church.

High ceilings framed by white floral arrangements, and stained glass windows filtered the morning light into soft golden beams. The scent of roses and orchids filled the air, a sacred calm too beautiful for the absurdity unfolding.

Every step echoed. My heels clicked against marble floors in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The wedding gown swept across the floor like a silent whisper.

Every eye turned to me. Not in shock.

Not in confusion.

They knew.

They all knew I wasn’t Tiara. That it was Tara De Carrillo who would stand beside Reagan De Russo at the altar, not the flamboyant actress with a thousand-camera smile.

My father held my hand, cold, formal, guiding me to the front. My mother sat quietly, rosary clutched in her hand. Cousins, Reagan’s relatives, even the notary from the De Russo legal firm… everyone was present.

No strangers. No photographers. No press.

Private. Controlled. Perfect.

And surreal.

At the altar, Reagan stood still. Cold and poised like an Italian marble statue.

He turned and looked at me. “Ready?” he whispered as I reached his side.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My breath was short, and my body hyperaware of this white dress, of Reagan’s fingers laced with mine in front of the priest.

The vows began.

I heard them like distant echoes.

Word by word, like a spell pulling me deeper into this impossible moment. The word marriage felt foreign on the tongue.

The word love sounded like a cruel joke.

“…in joy and in sorrow, I will stand by you,” Reagan recited, his blue eyes locked onto mine.

My hand trembled in his.

Then came the final line.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I didn’t even have time to breathe.

Reagan’s hand slid from my arm to my lower back, and in one smooth, confident motion, he leaned in…

And kissed me.

Not a peck.

Not a formality.

A real kiss.

Warm. Steady. Full. Certain.

Not cold. Not hesitant.

Not the kiss of a man abandoned by his fiancée hours ago.

Not the kiss of someone just salvaging a family name.

And me…

I lost all sense of reason.

One second.

Two.

Three…

I froze.

Then I gently pushed him back, gasping like someone surfacing from underwater.

My eyes wide, lips parted. “What was that?”

He just looked at me. Calm, unreadable. A small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“You said… you didn’t care.”

And just like that, my heart beat like a war drum.