Novelas y relatos de The Wedding That Will Never Be

"So, it really is your wedding today?" I looked him dead in the eye, calm and composed. "You think I'm like you? Always playing with people like they're pawns in your little games? "The wedding dress was custom-made, and Gavin brought the ring back from overseas. Neither of them was rented." Easton looked like he'd just been stabbed. "Then, the e-invite..." I opened my phone and shoved my feed in front of his face.

Together, we drove into the unknown, leaving behind the shattered remnants of a wedding that should never have been. ®✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓THE END

“Why you probably never found out.” The air between us shifted. I straightened, my attention locked on him. “Found out what?” Liam tilted his head, as if weighing whether this was common knowledge. “Well… the wedding never happened.” I stared, thinking I'd heard wrong. “What?” “They didn’t get married Owen.” He dropped his voice, like it wasn't for public ears.

"Here! Let’s use this as your wedding ring instead! Just like in those TV dramas! So romantic, right?" I took the soda can with shaking hands. The laughter in her eyes stoked my fury. I lifted the can, ready to splash its contents on her— However, before I could, Quentin shielded her with his body. His groomsmen grabbed my arms, holding me back. "Natalie, have you lost your mind?!" "She’s just a bit delusional from the memory loss. Don’t take it personally!" "Yeah, today’s your wedding! Don’t be so petty."

This time I wouldn’t be the woman crying on the floor begging for answers. This time I would be the one asking the questions. And the one delivering the consequences. I walked toward the large window overlooking the front gardens of the Woods estate. The staff were already moving around outside. Florists. Decorators. Caterers. All preparing for the wedding that would never happen. The sight almost made me laugh. The entire city expected tomorrow to be the grand wedding of Astrid Woods and Adam Pierce. The media had been talking about it for weeks. “The perfect couple.”

Everywhere I turn, there’s something about the wedding. TVs talk about it. Blogs write about it. Reporters stand outside the house. Every morning, when I step out, cameras flash in my face. Hailey Carter and Santino Blackwood, The Wedding of the Year. They make it sound beautiful, perfect, magical. But I know better. I know what kind of chains glitter under gold.

My heart pounded as his uncle gave me a small nod, signaling for me to follow. We got to the marriage court and Ryan didn’t look at me once. He just sat there, his face hard as stone, signing the marriage certificate like he was signing a death sentence. “Congratulations,” his uncle said with a tight smile once it was done, trying to sound cheerful. “You’re now husband and wife.” Neither of us said a word. Ryan simply nodded, wheeled himself toward the door, and muttered, “Can we leave now?” His uncle sighed, gave me an apologetic look, and motioned for us to go. We left in separate cars- him in his sleek black SUV with his driver, and me in another vehicle that followed closely behind.

Perhaps humiliation. Lady Beatrice lifted her teacup. “Then I suggest we find someone capable before the Harrington board begins to wonder whether the Vale family can manage a ceremony, let alone a merger.” There it was. The truth beneath the lace and champagne. This wedding had never been about love. It was about power. By noon, the dismissed planner had left the building in tears. By one-thirty, Alexander’s office had placed calls to three luxury event firms. By three-fifteen, his assistant informed him that one name had come highly recommended.

He leaned in once last time as his breath of expensive wine hit me. “By the way Elena ……. the wedding is not in a church. We’re going straight to the court house. My grandfather wants a legal marriage bonding document, not a hall filled with thousands of people witnessing me getting married to a woman who can’t even fit in a standard car seat.” …………………………………………………………. The court house was a blur of grey marble and rinked of cold ink. There were little or no flowers apart from the bouquet I had in my hands, no external witnesses, just the old wrinkled priest, my family, a young man whom I presumed to be his cousin brother, a tired clerk and a stack of papers that felt like a death warrant.

As Harold's parents comforted me, they pulled me into their car, and we sped toward the wedding venue. Inside the church, the center aisle was covered in Juliet roses, the kind of arrangement that must have cost a fortune. At the altar, the pastor was already reciting the wedding vows. Before him stood Leila, wearing a gown worth tens of millions, and Harold. She gazed up at him with bright, loving eyes. Just as they were about to exchange rings, with romantic music drifting through the hall, Derek charged in and shouted for the ceremony to stop.