The Wedding

POV: ISLA WINTERS (Flashback - Six Years Earlier, Age 22)

Two weeks had never felt so short and so long at the same time.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my childhood bedroom, staring at the girl in the white dress and trying to recognize myself.

The dress was beautiful, I'd give it that much. Simple, elegant, tea-length with delicate lace sleeves. I'd bought it myself with money from my part-time job at the university library, because when I'd asked my mother if there was a budget for a wedding dress, she'd laughed.

"Isla, this isn't a real wedding. It's a business arrangement. Don't make it into something it's not."

So I'd gone to a bridal shop in White Plains by myself and found this dress on the clearance rack. Three hundred dollars that had felt like a fortune. The saleswoman had been kind, had told me I looked beautiful, had asked about my fiancé with genuine interest.

I'd lied and said we were very much in love.

It was easier than explaining the truth.

"You look nice." Vivian appeared in my doorway, dressed in designer jeans and a silk top, somehow making even casual clothes look like she'd stepped off a runway. My younger sister had been home from Yale for the summer but had made herself scarce in the two weeks since the arrangement was announced.

I think she felt guilty. Which was almost funny, because she had nothing to feel guilty about. This wasn't her fault.

"Thanks," I said, adjusting the small veil I'd pinned into my hair. Another clearance find. Fifty dollars.

"Are you nervous?"

"Should I be?"

She came into the room, perching on my bed like she used to when we were kids, back before everything between us became complicated and distant. "Isla, you don't have to do this. You could run. Right now. Just... leave."

"With what money? What plan? What future?" I turned to face her. "You know I don't have choices here, Viv. Dad made that clear."

"Dad's an asshole."

That surprised me. Vivian never criticized our father. She was his favorite, his golden child, the daughter who could do no wrong.

"Yeah," I agreed quietly. "He is."

"For what it's worth, I think this is wrong. Selling you off like some medieval bride. It's barbaric."

"It's practical," I corrected, echoing the word my mother had used when I'd tried, once to protest. "The family has obligations. I'm fulfilling them."

"You're twenty-two."

"So are lots of married people."

"Yeah, but they marry people they chose. People they love." She picked at the comforter. "Have you even talked to him? Your fiancé? Beyond that one meeting?"

"No."

Jaxon had called once to confirm the ceremony details. The conversation had lasted maybe two minutes. He'd been polite but distant, like he was confirming a business appointment rather than discussing our wedding.

Which, I supposed, was exactly what it was.

"What's he like?" Vivian asked. "I looked him up online. He's hot. Like, really hot. And rich. So there's that, at least."

"There's that," I echoed, but the words felt hollow.

Yes, Jaxon Romano was handsome. Objectively, devastatingly handsome. And yes, he was wealthy, the penthouse alone was probably worth more than I'd ever make in my entire life.

But he'd looked at me during that meeting like I was a piece of furniture being delivered. Necessary but ultimately forgettable.

"Maybe it won't be so bad," Vivian offered, but she didn't sound convinced. "Maybe he'll be nice. Maybe you'll even fall in love."

I wanted to believe that. Wanted to hold onto the fairy tale that somehow, miraculously, this cold arrangement would transform into something real.

But I'd seen his eyes during that meeting. Ice blue and empty of any warmth when they landed on me.

Jaxon Romano didn't want me. He wanted a wife who wouldn't interfere with his life. And I was convenient, compliant, forgettable enough to fit that role.

"Maybe," I said anyway, because hope was the only thing I had left.

A knock on the door interrupted us. My mother, Margaret Winters, entered without waiting for permission. She was dressed impeccably as always, her blonde hair styled perfectly, her makeup flawless. She looked at me with the same critical eye she'd always used, and I saw the exact moment she found me wanting.

"You should wear more makeup," she said. "You look washed out."

"I have makeup on."

"Not enough." She walked to my vanity, picking up the minimal cosmetics I owned. "Here. Let me."

I sat at the vanity while my mother applied more blush, more lipstick, more everything. She worked in silence, her touch clinical rather than motherly, transforming me into a… more acceptable version of myself.

"There," she said finally, stepping back. "Better. At least you'll look presentable for the photos."

Presentable. Not beautiful. Not radiant. Just... presentable.

"Thanks, Mom."

She studied me in the mirror, and for just a moment, I thought I saw something that might have been regret flash across her face. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Isla, you understand why this is necessary, don't you? The family has obligations. Debts that must be honored."

"I understand."

"And you'll do what's expected? You'll be a good wife? You won't cause trouble or make demands?"

My throat tightened. "I understand what's expected."

"Good." She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from my dress. "The car will be here in ten minutes. Don't be late. Romano men don't appreciate tardiness."

She left, taking Vivian with her. I sat alone in my childhood bedroom for the last time, looking at the reflection my mother had improved, and I felt nothing.

No excitement. No fear. Just... numbness.

I was about to marry a stranger who didn't want me, to pay off a debt I didn't understand. I was giving up any dream of finishing my degree on my own terms, any hope of a career I'd built myself, any chance at the kind of love I'd read about in books.

And I was doing it because I had no other choice.

The girl in the mirror looked back at me with dark, sad eyes, and I thought: This is the last time you'll be Isla Winters. In a few hours, you'll be Isla Romano. And whoever that person is, she won't be you.

The courthouse was in Lower Manhattan, a utilitarian building that felt more like a DMV than a place where people committed their lives to each other.

My parents drove me in silence. No last-minute advice. No tears. No "we're so happy for you" speech that normal parents might give their daughter on her wedding day.

Just silence and obligation.

Jaxon was already there when we arrived, standing on the courthouse steps with his father. He wore a dark suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His father, Dante Romano, was an imposing figure, silver hair, cold eyes, the kind of presence that made you want to step back.

I'd only met him once, at the contract signing, but he'd terrified me then and he terrified me now.

Jaxon saw us approaching and came down the steps. Up close, he was even more handsome than I'd remembered, sharp jawline, those ice-blue eyes, dark hair styled perfectly. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine.

And he looked at me like I was a stranger he was being polite to.

"Isla." He nodded. "You look... nice."

Nice. The same word Vivian had used. The same inadequate, polite word that meant nothing.

"Thank you."

"Shall we go in? I have meetings this afternoon."

Of course he did. God forbid his wedding interfere with his busy schedule.

We walked into the courthouse together but not touching. My father spoke briefly with Dante, something about paperwork, about arrangements. My mother stood to the side, checking her phone.

No one asked if I was okay. No one asked if I needed a moment. No one seemed to notice that I was about to marry a man I'd spoken to for maybe a total of thirty minutes across three meetings.

The ceremony was in a small room with fluorescent lighting and generic artwork on the walls. The justice of the peace was a tired-looking woman in her fifties who'd probably performed a hundred weddings this month alone.

"Do we have the witnesses?" she asked.

Dante and my father stepped forward.

"And rings?"

Jaxon produced two simple gold bands from his pocket. I wondered if he'd picked them out himself or if his assistant had done it. They were beautiful but impersonal, exactly the kind of rings you'd buy when you didn't know the person wearing them.

The ceremony itself lasted maybe eight minutes. The justice of the peace read the standard vows, asked us to repeat them. Jaxon's voice was steady, emotionless, reciting words that should have meant something but clearly didn't.

When it was my turn, my voice shook. "I, Isla, take you, Jaxon, to be my lawfully wedded husband..."

The words felt like lies even as I said them. This wasn't a marriage. It was a transaction. A contract executed in a courthouse instead of a boardroom.

"You may exchange rings."

Jaxon took my hand, the first time he'd touched me since that initial handshake two weeks ago. His hand was warm, his grip impersonal but not unkind. He slid the ring onto my finger with the practiced efficiency of someone checking an item off a to-do list.

Then it was my turn. I fumbled slightly, my hands shaking, but managed to get his ring on. The gold looked strange against his tanned skin. A mark of ownership. Of obligation.

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

Jaxon looked at me with something that might have been discomfort. Or maybe just impatience. He leaned down; he was so much taller than me and pressed his lips to mine for exactly one second.

It was my first kiss.

It felt like nothing.

"Congratulations," the justice of the peace said with practiced enthusiasm. "Best wishes for a long and happy marriage."

That was it. Eight minutes and I was married. I was Isla Romano now, bound to a man who couldn't even fake emotion for the length of a kiss.

"We should take a photo," Dante said. "For the family records."

We stood outside on the courthouse steps. Dante's driver took the photo, one shot of all of us, then one of just Jaxon and me. In the photo, I'm smiling, or trying to. Jaxon's hand is on my lower back, proper but distant. We look like strangers who happened to be standing next to each other.

Which is exactly what we were.

"The reception is at Marea," Dante announced. "We have a reservation for seven."

A reservation. Not a reception. Just dinner with the two families, as impersonal as everything else about this day.

"I'll meet you there," Jaxon said, checking his watch. "I have a conference call I need to take."

"On your wedding day?" My mother's voice held a note of disapproval.

"Business doesn't stop for personal matters, Margaret." Dante's tone was sharp. "Jaxon understands priorities."

My new husband looked at me briefly. "I'll see you at seven. The car will pick you up."

Then he walked away. Left his wife of ten minutes standing on the courthouse steps while he went back to work.

I stood there in my clearance wedding dress, my inadequate makeup, my simple veil, and watched my husband disappear into a town car. And I thought: This is my life now. This is what I agreed to.

"Well," my father said, clapping his hands together like he'd just closed a business deal. Which, I supposed, he had. "That's done. We'll see you tonight, Isla. Seven sharp. Don't be late."

My parents left too. Vivian gave me a helpless look, a small hug, and then she was gone as well.

I stood alone on the courthouse steps in my wedding dress, people rushing past me to their own appointments and obligations, and I realized: this was how it was going to be.

I was married. I wore a ring. I had a new last name.

But I'd never been more alone in my entire life.

The reception if you could call it that was exactly as awkward as I'd feared.

Marea was beautiful, an expensive Italian restaurant in Central Park South where celebrities ate and business deals were closed. Our table was in a private room, just the six of us: Jaxon and me, our fathers, my mother, and my sister.

Dante dominated the conversation, discussing business with my father, occasionally directing comments at Jaxon about Apex Technologies. My mother made polite small talk with no one in particular. Vivian looked uncomfortable, pushing food around her plate.

And Jaxon... Jaxon checked his phone. Responded to emails. Participated minimally in conversation.

He was physically present but mentally somewhere else entirely.

I sat in my wedding dress, picking at my appetizer, and wondered if this was what the rest of my life would look like. Sitting next to a husband who barely acknowledged my existence while other people discussed business I wasn't part of.

"Isla, you're very quiet," Dante observed, his cold eyes landing on me. "Nervous?"

"Just tired," I said softly.

"Understandable. It's been a long day." He took a sip of his wine. "You should know that the Romano family has certain expectations for wives. Discretion. Loyalty. Silence about family matters."

It wasn't advice. It was a warning.

"I understand."

"Good. Jaxon needs a wife who won't be a distraction. Who'll manage the household efficiently and stay out of his business affairs. Can you do that?"

Every word was a small cut. A reminder that I was furniture, not a partner.

"Yes."

"Excellent." He turned back to my father, dismissing me entirely.

The meal dragged on for two hours. Toasts were made, perfunctory, businesslike. Dante toasted to "strategic alliances" and "the continuation of legacy." My father toasted to "honoring obligations" and "family loyalty."

No one toasted to love. To happiness. To the hope that maybe, somehow, this cold arrangement might become something real.

Finally, mercifully, dinner ended.

"We should go," Jaxon said, standing abruptly. "I have an early meeting tomorrow."

Of course he did.

"Goodnight, everyone." He shook hands with the fathers, nodded at my mother and sister, and then looked at me. "Ready?"

Ready for what? Ready to go to his penthouse; our penthouse now and start this mockery of a marriage? Ready to sleep in a home that would never feel like mine? Ready to spend the rest of my life with a man who'd looked at his phone more than he'd looked at me during our wedding dinner?

"Yes," I said, because what else was there to say?

The car ride to his penthouse was silent. Jaxon typed on his phone the entire time. I stared out the window at the city lights, this new life rushing past me in a blur of neon and strangers.

When we arrived, Jaxon held the door for me, at least he had manners and we rode the elevator up to the fortieth floor in more silence.

His penthouse was beautiful. Sleek, modern, expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. Minimalist furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Everything perfectly placed, nothing personal or warm.

It was a showroom, not a home.

"Your room is down this hall," Jaxon said, pointing left. "I'm on the opposite side of the penthouse. The kitchen is fully stocked. If you need anything else, there's a household account. The information is on the counter."

My room. Not our room. Not even the guest room.

Just... my room.

"Okay," I managed.

He stood there, clearly uncomfortable, and I realized he was trying to figure out how to address the elephant in the room.

The wedding night.

"We need to..." He cleared his throat. "For legal purposes, the marriage needs to be consummated. Tonight. But it doesn't need to be... I'll make it quick."

Quick. He'd make it quick.

My first time, and he'd make it quick so he could get back to his emails.

I should have said something. Should have asked for time, for gentleness, for anything other than this clinical approach to intimacy.

But I was twenty-two and terrified and so desperate for any connection with this stranger who was now my husband that I just nodded.

"Okay."

"I'll give you twenty minutes to... prepare. Then I'll come to your room."

He walked away before I could respond.

I stood in the middle of his beautiful, empty penthouse and felt tears prick at my eyes. But I didn't let them fall. Crying wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't make Jaxon want me. Wouldn't make this arrangement into something it wasn't.

I walked to "my room", a beautiful space with a king-sized bed and an ensuite bathroom and absolutely no personality and sat on the edge of the bed.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes to prepare for my wedding night with a husband who'd made it clear he was only doing this because it was legally required.

Twenty minutes until I gave my virginity to a man who couldn't even pretend to want me.

I changed out of my wedding dress and into the nightgown I'd brought, my hands shaking. Took down my hair. Washed off the makeup my mother had applied.

And I waited.

Exactly twenty minutes later, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it to find Jaxon standing there, having changed into just pants and a t-shirt. He looked uncomfortable.

Like he was about to perform an unpleasant but necessary task.

"Ready?" he asked.

No. I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready for this cold, transactional version of something that should have been special.

"Yes," I lied.

And as he walked into my room and closed the door behind him, I made myself a promise:

I would try. I would try with everything I had to make this marriage into something real. To make Jaxon see me. To make him want me. To turn this cold arrangement into the kind of love I'd always dreamed of.

I didn't know then that trying wouldn't be enough.

That love couldn't change a man who'd been taught that emotion was weakness.

That some things or some people were broken too badly to fix.

All I knew was that this was my wedding night.

And it was the loneliest I'd ever felt in my entire life.