And before he can say anything in return, I shut the door in his face.
Because tomorrow, I become his wife.
But tonight?
Tonight, I still get the last word.
The courthouse steps are older than I expected.
Worn down by time. Faded, cracked, imperfect.
Kind of like me.
I climb them slowly, my fingers curling around the soft fabric of the white dress I grabbed off a rack less than four hours ago. It wasn’t designer. It wasn’t expensive. But it was mine. And I chose it.
Because even if this marriage is a lie—temporary and transactional and completely unplanned—wearing white makes it feel like something I decided.
Like somethingnormal.
I hear footsteps beside me.
Ariana.
She showed up like she always does—quietly, without ceremony, holding my hand like she is still four years old sneaking out the back gate to chase fireflies.
She’s not smiling.
But she’s here.
And that’s enough.
Ahead of us, my father stands stiffly near the courthouse doors, looking like a man trying to pretend he still has control. He doesn't.
Beside him, Langston waits.
And he's watching me.
Not politely.
Not casually.
No—his gaze tracks every single step I take like he's memorizing my movements, like my hips are a problem he wants to solve with his mouth.
My breath catches in my throat, and I straighten my spine.
I will not melt for this man on the courthouse stairs.
His suit is black. Crisp. Tailored like sin.
The wind lifts a few strands of my hair, and I swear his eyes darken as they follow the curve of it across my collarbone.
I hate the way my skin prickles under his attention.
I hate the way I don’t hate it.
We reach the top, and I don’t look at my father. Not even once. Ariana squeezes my hand and then lets go as Langston steps forward and opens the courthouse door.
I don’t thank him.
