Episode 4 — A Wedding in a Wheelchair

The morning of the wedding arrives grey and cold—the kind of Los Angeles day that feels like a warning.

I haven't slept. I spent the night staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, listening to the distant sounds of the estate coming alive: staff arranging flowers, caterers preparing food, and the low hum of a wedding that should never have happened.

My phone buzzes. A text from Karina.

KARINA: I'm outside. Let me in.

Karina. My best friend. The only person in the world who has ever looked at me and seen someone worth seeing.

I creep downstairs and open the side door. She's standing there in sweatpants and a hoodie, her hair a mess, her eyes red from crying.

"You didn't think I'd let you do this alone," she says.

I burst into tears.

She holds me in the kitchen while I sob into her shoulder—ugly and broken, the way I haven't cried since I was a child.

"I can't do this," I whisper. "Karina, I can't—"

"Yes, you can." Her voice is firm. "You can do this because you have to. But you don't have to do it alone."

"They're making me marry him. He hates me. He told me he'd rather lose everything than marry me."

Karina pulls back, her hands on my shoulders. "Then he's a fool."

"He's not a fool. He loves Jade. He's always loved Jade."

"And Jade abandoned him at the altar." Karina's eyes flash. "She ran off with her trainer and left him humiliated in front of five hundred people. She never loved him. She never loved anyone but herself."

I wipe my eyes. "That doesn't change how he feels."

"No, but it changes how you should feel." Karina takes my face in her hands. "Listen to me, Freya. You have spent your entire life giving pieces of yourself to people who never deserved them. Your blood. Your kidney. Your heart. And what have you gotten in return?"

I don't answer.

"Nothing," she says. "Not a single thank you. Not a single moment of being seen. They treat you like a spare part, and you let them because you think it's the only way to be loved."

"Karina—"

"Don't marry him for them." Her voice breaks. "Marry him because you want to, or don't marry him at all. But don't walk down that aisle thinking you're worthless. You're not. You never were."

I stare at her. The tears are still falling, but something else is rising inside me—something that feels almost like strength.

"I don't know how to do this," I whisper.

"You don't have to know." She squeezes my hands. "You just have to keep breathing. One step at a time. One moment at a time. And when it gets too hard, you call me. I'll be there."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

At seven, my mother appears with the dress. White silk. Jade's dress. It fits perfectly because we are the same size, the same height, and the same shade of blonde.

We are interchangeable.

"You'll be beautiful," my mother says, and there's something in her voice that almost sounds like pride.

I don't believe her. I don't believe anything she says anymore.

Karina stands in the corner, watching. She doesn't say a word, but I see her jaw tighten when my mother leaves.

"She doesn't deserve you," Karina whispers.

"She's my mother."

"That doesn't mean she gets to treat you like this."

I don't have an answer. I don't have anything left.

The venue is a cathedral in Beverly Hills, all vaulted ceilings and stained glass. Five hundred guests fill the pews, their whispers rising like smoke.

"Where's Jade?"

"Ran off with someone, I heard."

"So they're marrying the sister instead?"

"How convenient."

I hear every word as I wait in the vestibule, my hands trembling around a bouquet of white roses.

Karina is beside me, her hand on my back.

"Breathe," she says. "Just breathe."

"What if I can't do this?"

"Then you can't. But you can. You're the strongest person I know, Freya. You've survived things that would have broken anyone else. This is just one more thing."

I look at her. "What if he never loves me?"

Karina's eyes soften. "Then you learn to live without it. But you don't stop living. You don't stop being you. Promise me."

"I promise."

She hugs me one last time. "I'll be right there. Front row. Watching."

The music begins.

The doors open.

I walk.

Every step feels like walking toward my own execution. The guests turn to watch me, their eyes burning with curiosity and judgment.

And then I see Karina in the front row, her eyes bright with tears, her hands pressed together like she's praying.

I don't look away. I keep walking, and I don't stop until I reach the altar.

Marcus is there. He's wearing a black suit, his face pale and set in stone. His hands rest on the arms of the wheelchair, his knuckles white. He doesn't look at me.

The priest begins to speak. My heart pounds so loudly it drowns out everything else.

"Do you, Marcus Hunt, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Silence.

The priest clears his throat. "Do you, Marcus Hunt—"

"I heard you." Marcus's voice is cold. Flat. "Yes. I do."

There's no emotion in the words. No promise. No love.

Just... obligation.

"And do you, Freya Vance, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

I look at Marcus. He still won't look at me.

For a moment, I hear Karina's voice in my head: You don't have to do this.

But I do. Because if I don't, my family will be destroyed. Because if I don't, I'll be nothing.

"I do," I whisper.

"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The words hang in the air.

"You may kiss the bride."

Marcus doesn't move.

The guests shift uncomfortably. The priest's smile falters.

Then, slowly, Marcus leans forward in his wheelchair—just enough to press a cold, brief kiss to my cheek.

It's not a kiss. It's a dismissal.

I look at Karina. She's crying. And I know she's thinking what I'm thinking: This is wrong. This is all wrong.

The reception is a blur.

Champagne flows. People dance. The orchestra plays the same songs Jade chose months ago.

I sit beside Marcus at the head table, my hands folded in my lap, my face frozen in a smile that hurts.

Karina sits across from me, watching. She doesn't dance. She doesn't drink. She just watches.

The reception ends at eleven. The guests leave.

Karina finds me in the hallway before I go to the bridal suite.

"Are you okay?"

"No," I admit. "But I'll survive."

"I know you will." She hugs me fiercely. "Call me tomorrow. Any time. I don't care if it's three in the morning."

"I will."

She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. "You're not alone, Freya. You never were. Remember that."

I nod, even though I don't believe it.

The bridal suite is beautiful in a way that feels cruel. White silk and roses. Champagne on ice.

It's supposed to be romantic. It's supposed to be the beginning of a life together.

Instead, it's a tomb.

Marcus is sitting in his wheelchair by the window, staring out at the city lights. He hasn't spoken to me since the ceremony.

"Marcus—"

"Don't."

The word cuts through the silence like a blade.

He turns slowly, and for the first time all day, he looks at me. Really looks at me.

"Do you know what you've done?"

"What?"

"You've taken everything from me." His voice trembles with barely controlled rage. "You've taken my freedom. My future. My life."

"That's not—"

"Don't lie to me." He leans forward, his eyes burning. "You think this makes you my wife? You think a ring and a piece of paper give you the right to expect anything from me?"

The tears come before I can stop them. "I never asked for this. Never. They forced me—"

"I don't care who forced you." His voice rises. "You said yes. You put on that dress and walked down that aisle, and now you're standing here like you deserve something."

"I don't expect—"

"Yes, you do." He laughs, bitter and broken. "You expect me to love you. To take care of you. To be the husband this contract demands."

"I don't."

"You do." He wheels closer, and I flinch. "Let me make one thing clear, Freya. Becoming my wife does not give you the right to expect my love. That was never part of the deal. It never will be."

I stare at him. The tears are streaming down my face, and I can't stop them.

"I know," I whisper.

He pauses, thrown by the words.

"I know you don't love me," I continue, my voice shaking. "I've known for eight years. You love Jade. You'll always love Jade. I'm just the substitute, the replacement, the one who happened to be available."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because I had no choice!" The words tear out of me. "Because my father told me I was no daughter of his if I refused. Because my mother looked at me like I was a solution to a problem. Because for the first time in my life, I was useful instead of invisible."

I stop, breathless.

Marcus is staring at me, his expression unreadable.

"I don't expect your love," I say, quieter now. "I don't expect anything. But I'm here. I'm your wife. And whether you like it or not, we're in this together."

He looks at me for a long moment.

Then he turns his wheelchair away.

"Get some sleep, Freya," he says. "Tomorrow, we start pretending."