The weight of his trust startled me.
We had known each other for less than five minutes, yet in that hand there was faith, desperate and unspoken. I pressed my fingers around his, holding it like a lifeline to both of us.
We flagged a taxi on the next block.
The driver did a double-take when he saw my bloodied face, the torn wedding gown, and the silent child clinging to me, but he didn’t ask questions. Just drove, pulling into traffic without a word, leaving the street behind like a world we no longer belonged to.
The boy never let go of my hand during the ride. Even when we hit bumps, even when my hand cramped from gripping his, even when the wind from the open window whipped at my face and blood, sweat, and tears mingled in the torn lace of my veil, he held on. And I held on to him.
When we arrived at the chapel, the smell of polished wood and lilies hit me first—faint, floral, almost antiseptic in the winter air.
The double doors loomed before us, open like a gateway into a theater of judgment. Inside, rows of polished pews held witnesses, mostly Thompson family and associates, along with a smattering of stiff relatives from my father’s side, all assembled to witness the transaction disguised as a wedding.
The instant my heel touched the wooden floor, silence fell like a curtain. Every head turned. Eyes scanned me—from the ruined gown to the bloodied face, the torn veil, the way my shoes scraped against the polished floor. Shock, disgust, amusement—it all reflected back at me in the polished pews.
My gown was filthy, satin streaked with mud and blood, the knees ripped. My face was a disaster: lower lip split and swollen, nose bleeding, eye already purple from the fight outside. The cheap veil was lopsided, half torn, framing my bruised features like a cruel portrait.
The boy’s hand tightened in mine, gripping like a lifeline, and I squeezed back. I would not let him see me falter—not now.
At the altar, Harris stood like a statue in his crisp black tuxedo. Arms crossed, shoulders rigid, face thunderous.
His eyes swept over me, then the child, then back to me again. His lip curled, a disgusted sneer, as if he’d smelled something rotten and was forcing himself to endure it.
I straightened my back, forcing a semblance of composure. Every nerve screamed at me, every muscle still coiled from the street fight, but I refused to show weakness. Not in front of him. Not in front of the crowd. Not in front of the boy who had trusted me.
I led the boy to the front pew, careful not to jostle him as my arms shook from exhaustion and pain. Every step sent a spike of agony through my ribs, a dull, constant reminder of the fight just moments ago. “Sweetheart,” I said, voice gentle, careful, “can you sit here? Just for a little while. I promise no one will bother you. I’ll be right up there.”
His tiny fingers clung to mine, knuckles white, eyes darting nervously from me to Harris and back again. I could feel the tremor of his entire body—fear, confusion, maybe even a hint of hope. It was the same fear I’d seen in myself ten years ago in that basement, only smaller, purer, untainted by the horrors I’d already survived.
I knelt briefly, ignoring the scream of pain in my ribs, and looked him in the eye.
“Please. Everyone’s waiting,” I whispered, pressing all the authority I had into my tone.
My hand gently pried his fingers free, guiding him onto the pew.
He sat down, small and rigid, like a statue, shoulders pulled tight, hands folded in his lap, eyes locked on me as if willing me to protect him.
I straightened and pushed through the weight in my limbs, walking the aisle like a soldier going into a battle I hadn’t chosen but could not refuse.
Each step was agony—every movement reminded me of bruises blooming across my body, every gust of air cut my lungs—but I ignored it.
The whispers in the chapel rose around me, like a tide of judgment. Phones lifted, flashes already capturing the chaos, but I didn’t care. I had bigger battles than their opinions.
When I reached the altar, Harris’s eyes met mine, dark and stormy, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were stark white.
He looked like he might strike, like I was standing in his way of taking everything he thought he deserved.
I forced a smile—bloody, crooked, defiant. “Can we get started?” I asked the priest, my voice raw but carrying.
Before the man could answer, Harris lunged, snatching the microphone from the stand like a weapon, the chapel going silent at the abrupt violence of the motion.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed, voice booming across the wooden rafters, echoing off the polished pews. “Men of the great Thompson family. Representatives of the Vasquez estate. You can all see the effort I’ve put into this union. I sent a dress. I booked the venue. I showed up on time.” His eyes locked on me, cruel and calculating. “But the bride—clearly—has other priorities. Showing up late. Covered in blood. Dragging some random street child into our wedding like it’s a circus.”
He shook his head slowly, disgust dripping from every word, as if my very existence offended him. “I didn’t send her a dirtygown, last I checked. And I certainly didn’t sign up to marry someone who looks like she just rolled out of a bar fight.”
A murmur ran through the guests, some shocked, some amused, some openly smirking. I ignored them.
I could feel the boy’s small hand tightening around mine, sensing my tension and mirroring it, trembling like a tiny compass pointing to fear and instinct.
