The Deal in a Wedding Dress

—Celeste—

The courthouse steps felt like ice beneath my trembling hands as I gripped the marble railing. My divorce papers—crisp, official, final—rustled in the autumn wind that cut through my thin coat. Each gust seemed to whisper what everyone already knew: I was walking away with nothing.

Just like I'd come into this marriage with nothing.

The heavy wooden doors groaned open behind me, and I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. I could feel Killian Hart's presence like a storm cloud, cold and suffocating. Three years of marriage had taught me to recognize the way the air changed when he entered a room—how conversations died, how people straightened their spines, how even the shadows seemed to bend toward his authority.

"Celeste."

His voice was as emotionless as it had been in front of the judge. No anger. No regret. Nothing. God, how I wished he would just feel something—anything—instead of looking at me like I was a business transaction he was finally closing. Even hatred would have been better than this arctic indifference.

I turned slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs. Killian stood there in his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, hands buried deep in his pockets, dark eyes unreadable. At thirty-two, he looked exactly like he had three years ago when I'd first met him in my father's crumbling office. Devastatingly handsome. Completely untouchable. A man who could buy and sell entire companies before breakfast and still look bored by lunch.

"The papers are signed," I said, proud that my voice didn't shake. "We're done."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with that calculating gaze that had once made me feel special. Now it just made me feel like a specimen under glass—interesting for a moment, then easily forgotten.

"Are we?"

The question hung between us like a blade. My breath caught, and for one desperate, foolish moment, I wondered if he was going to fight for us. If he was going to say something—anything—that proved these three years had meant more to him than a successful merger between Hart Industries and my father's failing textile company.

But then his expression hardened, that familiar wall sliding back into place like steel shutters over windows.

"Take care of yourself, Celeste."

He brushed past me, and I caught the faint scent of his cologne—bergamot and cedar, the same one he'd worn on our wedding night. The memory hit me like a physical blow, sharp and unforgiving.

I remembered the pen had felt so heavy in my hand as I signed the marriage contract three years ago, my wedding dress pooling around me like spilled milk on his mahogany desk. The Vera Wang gown my mother would never see me wear, the dreams she'd never see come true.

"This is just business," Killian had said, not even looking at me as I sealed my fate in black ink. "Don't make it complicated."

But God, how complicated it had become. How complicated I had let it become.

"You'll have everything you need," he'd continued, already turning back to his laptop. "Credit cards, allowances, a place in society. In return, you'll attend functions, smile for photographs, and stay out of my way."

I should have run then. Should have grabbed my dress and dignity and walked out. Instead, I'd whispered, "What about love?"

He'd actually laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "Love is a luxury neither of us can afford."

"Killian, wait—"

But he was already halfway down the steps, his broad shoulders rigid with dismissal.

I snapped back to reality, watched him slide into his black Mercedes, watched the tinted windows roll up like barriers between us. The car pulled away from the curb with mechanical precision, disappearing into traffic without ceremony. Just like that, Killian Hart vanished from my life as efficiently as he'd entered it.

The silence that followed felt deafening. Around me, other people's lives continued—lawyers hurrying past with briefcases, couples arguing over custody arrangements, clerks smoking cigarettes by the courthouse entrance. The world moved forward while mine had just ended.

I pressed my lips together, tasting salt.

When had I started crying? I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and forced myself to walk toward the waiting taxi. Each step felt like I was walking through quicksand, gravity pulling me down with every breath.

The driver—a kind-faced man with graying temples—glanced at me in the rearview mirror as I settled into the backseat. "Rough day, miss?"

I almost laughed. Rough day. Three years of my life, my identity, my foolish hope that maybe he'd learn to love me back—all of it reduced to a rough day.

"Where to?" he asked gently, probably used to ferrying broken people away from courthouses.

I stared out the window at the courthouse growing smaller behind us. Where did I go? I had no family to run back to—my father had died six months ago, his business empire reduced to ash the moment Killian withdrew his support. My mother was gone five years now, cancer taking her before she could see her daughter become Mrs. Hart. No friends who hadn't chosen sides in the divorce, most of them choosing his money over my friendship.

No future that didn't feel like a gaping void.

But I wasn't alone. Not really.

My hand moved instinctively to my still-flat stomach, fingers spreading protectively over the secret growing inside me. Eight weeks along, and still so small I could barely believe it was real. The secret Killian would never know about. The one thing he'd given me that he couldn't take back.

"The airport," I whispered.

The driver nodded and pulled into traffic. As the city began to blur past my window, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a different ending to this story. One where I could have turned around on those courthouse steps and said the words that might have changed everything: I'm carrying your child.

Maybe his mask would have slipped. Maybe he would have shown me something real.

But Killian Hart had made his choice three years ago when he'd handed me that contract instead of a wedding ring. He'd chosen business over emotion, convenience over connection. He'd built walls so high that even now, even pregnant with his baby, I couldn't find a way over them.

The papers in my lap caught the afternoon light streaming through the taxi window. My signature was still drying—Celeste Marie Blackwood. No longer a Hart. Soon, I would disappear entirely from his world, taking with me the one piece of him he'd never meant to give.

My phone buzzed against my purse. A text from an unknown number: Car will pick you up at 3 PM tomorrow. New life waiting. Everything arranged as discussed. —M

I stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it and powered off my phone. Tomorrow, I would board a plane to Seattle where Marcus Chen, my father's old friend, had offered me a position at his marketing firm. A chance to start over, to build something that was mine alone.

Tomorrow, Killian Hart's child would have a chance at something he'd never experienced—a parent who chose love over everything else.

The taxi merged onto the highway, carrying me toward SeaTac Airport and an uncertain future. In my reflection in the window, I looked like a ghost of the girl who'd once believed in fairy tales and happy endings. But beneath my palm, warm and real and growing stronger every day, was proof that sometimes the most important stories began with an ending.

I closed my eyes and whispered a promise to the life inside me: "I'll never let anyone make you feel like you're not worth fighting for. You'll know what it means to be chosen, to be wanted, to be loved unconditionally."

The courthouse disappeared behind a bend in the road, taking with it the last three years of my life. But in the growing darkness of the evening, as Seattle's skyline appeared on the horizon, I began to plan for the dawn.