The Wife He Never Loved

Aria's POV 

I stood at the back of the St. Regulus Cathedral, watching my husband stand at the altar as best man to a groom he barely liked. 

The bride floated down the aisle in clouds of white silk and lace, and I watched Jason's face transform into something I had never seen in our two years of marriage.

He looked like a man seeing a ghost.

Violet Brown was beautiful in that effortless way some women would… her dark hair cascaded over bare shoulders, her eyes that sparkled even from a distance. 

But it wasn't her beauty that made Jason stare. It was how much she looked like her dead sister.

Isabelle Brown had died five years ago in a car accident. I knew because I had found the photos hidden in Jason's desk drawer six months into our marriage—Jason younger, smiling, his arm around a woman who could have been Violet's twin. 

Love letters tucked beneath them, words that had carved themselves into my memory: “You're my everything. I'll love you forever. No one will ever compare.”

I had never seen Jason smile like that. Not at me. Not even once.

"Beautiful ceremony, isn't it?" An older woman beside me whispered, dabbing at her eyes.

I nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.

I wasn't supposed to be here. Jason had made that clear when the invitation arrived three weeks ago.

"Business associates only," he had said over breakfast, not looking up from his tablet. "You would be bored."

I had agreed like I always did, swallowing the hurt like bitter medicine. But then his mother had called, her voice sharp with disapproval. 

"What do you mean you're not bringing Aria? It looks terrible for a wife to skip important events. People will talk."

So here I was, standing alone at the back while Jason stood at the front, and people talked anyway.

The ceremony blurred together; vows, rings, the kiss. I watched Jason's jaw tighten when the groom kissed Violet, I watched his hands clench at his sides. 

The guests erupted in applause, but Jason looked like he was attending a funeral instead of a wedding.

Maybe he was.

The reception was held at the Grandmont Estate, all manicured gardens and string quartets and champagne that cost more per bottle than most people's monthly rent. 

I found our assigned table near the front—Mr. and Mrs. Jason Hartley engraved on place cards in gold script.

Jason pulled out my chair without looking at me, then disappeared into the crowd before I could sit down.

I sat alone, smoothing my navy dress over my knees, and watched my husband work the room. 

He was good at this—the networking, the schmoozing, the perfect smile that never reached his eyes. 

Women gravitated toward him like moths to a flame, and he charmed them all with the same distant politeness he showed me.

"Is this seat taken?"

I looked up to find an elderly man gesturing to Jason's empty chair. My husband was nowhere in sight.

"No," I said. "Please."

He sat with a grateful sigh, introduced himself as someone's uncle, and proceeded to tell me about his grandchildren for twenty minutes. 

I nodded and smiled and pretended my chest wasn't aching, pretended I didn't notice the pitying glances from nearby tables.

Poor Mrs. Hartley. Alone again.

The toasts began after dinner. The groom's father spoke, then Violet's mother, tears streaming down her face as she mentioned Isabelle and how much she would have loved to see this day. Then Jason stood, and the room fell silent.

He looked down at his champagne glass, and when he spoke, his voice carried across the reception hall with devastating clarity.

"Isabelle Brown was the kindest person I ever knew," he began.

My stomach dropped.

"She had this way of making everyone feel seen, valued, important. She lit up every room she entered." 

His voice cracked slightly. "Violet, you look so much like your sister today that for a moment, I forgot she was gone."

The room went still. This wasn't a wedding toast, it was an eulogy.

"Isabelle would have been so happy for you," Jason continued, oblivious to the tension. "She always said you'd find someone who deserved you. I think she would approve of your choice."

He raised his glass. "To Isabelle. And to Violet and Andrew. May your love be everything mine…" He stopped abruptly, seemed to remember where he was. "May your love last forever."

The guests murmured uncertain agreement and drank. I drained my champagne in one burning gulp.

Jason sat down at a different table, next to Violet's mother. He didn't come back.

An hour later, I found him in the estate gardens with Violet, standing too close under a pergola dripping with wisteria. Her hand was on his arm, her face tilted up toward his. 

They weren't touching inappropriately, but the intimacy in their posture made my chest tight.

I turned away before they could see me and walked back inside on with my legs shaking.

"Isn't that Jason Hartley's wife?" someone whispered behind me.

"Poor thing. Everyone knows he never got over Isabelle Brown."

"I heard he only married her because his family pressured him to move on."

"She must know she's just a replacement."

I kept walking, head high, dying inside.

Jason found me an hour later, appearing at my elbow without warning. "We're leaving."

"Already?" The reception was still in full swing.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow." He was already moving toward the exit, expecting me to follow.

I did. I always did.

The drive home was silent except for the hum of the engine and the city lights sliding past the windows. 

Jason's jaw was tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it had personally offended him.

"You're in love with a dead woman," I said quietly.

His knuckles went white. "Don't be dramatic."

"You're not denying it.”

"Aria!"

"You gave a toast about your dead ex-girlfriend at someone else's wedding, Jason. You disappeared with her sister for an hour. Everyone there felt sorry for me."

"If you're embarrassed, maybe you should have stayed home like I suggested."

The casual cruelty of it stole my breath. 

We pulled into our building's underground garage, and Jason was out of the car before it fully stopped. 

I followed him to the elevator, into the penthouse, down the hall. He headed straight for his study.

"No." The word came out stronger than I felt. "We're not done."

Jason stopped, hand on the door frame, and finally looked at me. Really looked at me for the first time in months.

"Did you ever love me?" I asked. "Even a little?"

For a long moment, he just stared. Then his expression shifted into something almost pitying.

"I married you because I knew I would never love you," he said quietly. "That made it easier."

The words hung in the air like poison. Before I could think, my hand flew across his face, a sharp crack in the silence. His cheek reddened, but his facial expression didn't change. He didn't even flinch.

"Feel better?" he asked, voice flat.

I wanted to hit him again. I wanted to scream. Instead, my voice came out broken: "I want a divorce."

Jason's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's not how this works, Aria. You signed a prenup. Three years or you leave with nothing." 

He paused, watching my face crumble. "We have eight months left, you can survive eight months."

He knows. He knows I have been thinking about leaving.