Terpaksa Menikahi

Rain fell in relentless sheets against the towering windows of the Blackwood estate, smearing the manicured gardens into a blur of gray and green. Inside the bridal suite, Lydia stood in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection pale in the soft light. The gown she wore was exquisite—ivory lace hugging her figure, delicate embroidery tracing her collarbones—but it felt like armor, a costume in a play she had never chosen to be part of.

Today, she was marrying Ethan Blackwood.

The thought twisted in her chest. Ethan—cold, untouchable, and devastatingly handsome—was a man who had made it abundantly clear he did not want her. Their engagement was not about love. It was a transaction, orchestrated by his grandfather, Harrison Blackwood, who insisted on securing the family’s legacy before his health failed. To Harrison, Lydia was perfect: quiet, refined, and respectable. To Ethan, she was a stranger thrust into a life he had no desire to lead.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Miss Lydia, it’s time,” a maid said gently.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia lifted her bouquet and walked down the long corridor. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floors, echoing in the empty halls. She was alone—no father to guide her, no family to steady her. The world was watching, yet she felt invisible.

The chapel was grand, every detail polished and flawless. Guests whispered behind polite smiles, eager to witness the union of power and wealth. And there he stood—Ethan Blackwood. Tall, immaculately dressed, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment, cold and assessing, before looking away.

When the officiant began the vows, Lydia’s voice trembled as she repeated the words she had memorized, words she barely felt. “I do.”

Ethan’s voice followed—steady, emotionless, cutting through the quiet like steel. “I do.”

The ring slid onto her finger, heavy and unyielding. And when he leaned in, she dared to hope—but his lips only brushed her cheek in a perfunctory, detached gesture. Polite. Distant.

The reception passed in a blur. Lydia smiled, posed for photographs, and accepted congratulations, all while Ethan remained distant, answering questions curtly and offering no warmth. To the outside world, they appeared flawless. Behind the smiles and glittering chandeliers, the chasm between them grew wider by the hour.

Finally, the last guest departed, and the mansion fell silent. Lydia waited, her heart pounding with both fear and anticipation. Ethan entered, removing his jacket, his movements precise and measured.

“This marriage changes nothing,” he said bluntly, his eyes avoiding hers. “You will have comfort, money, protection—but do not expect affection.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded, swallowing back the sting of his words.

“There is someone else,” he added, voice flat, almost bored. “And there always will be.”

Lydia’s chest tightened, but she lifted her chin. She had expected this, and she would endure it. Without another word, Ethan walked toward the opposite wing, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.

Alone in the vast, empty room, Lydia sank onto the couch, clutching her bouquet as tears fell silently. This was her wedding night. And she was utterly, completely alone.

Yet, beneath the ache, a fragile determination sparked. If he did not want her… if he refused to see her worth… one day, he would regret it.

And she would not be the woman left waiting.