My throat tightens as we move farther down the hall. I swallow and force my shoulders down, because I can already hear Sasha in my head telling me posture is ninety percent confidence and ten percent refusing to crumble.
The door at the end of the hallway is closed.
It looks ordinary. Plain wood. Silver handle.
Like it isn’t about to change everything.
My pulse taps hard against my ribs. My palms feel damp. I wipe them discreetly against the dress and immediately regret it, because the silk is too expensive to be used as an emotional support towel.
Manny says nothing, but his presence shifts slightly, like he’s ready to catch me if I start tipping.
I take another step.
Then another.
The hallway feels longer than it should, giving me plenty of time to reflect on my choices, and, you know, consider running for an emergency exit.
But I don't.
The door opens. And there Camden stands. He's just inside the room, dark henley, broad shoulders, hands clasped in frontof him like he’s bracing for impact. His expression is grim, controlled, the kind of face men wear when they are determined not to show anyone their emotions.
The sight of him makes reality slam into me.
This is not a dream.
This is not a song.
This is me, walking into a room to get married to a stranger.
A very real, very intimidating stranger.
My feet keep moving because they have apparently betrayed me and chosen forward motion over self-preservation.
I step closer, and Camden’s eyes flick to mine.
Brief. Sharp. Unreadable.
Then his jaw tightens like he’s preparing for battle.
And I realize, with a strange twist of dread, that he isn’t the only one.
The room we walk into looks like it tried very hard not to be a wedding.
A polished conference space. Neutral walls. Soft overhead lighting that feels more suited to a mediation than a life-altering commitment. A long table has been pushed aside to make room, like someone remembered this was supposed to be ceremonial about five minutes ago.
Evelyn stands near the front, composed and unflappable as ever. Beside her is an older woman with kind eyes and an energy that saysI have seen stranger things than this before lunch. She introduces herself as a licensed civil judge, her voice calm and solemn without being dramatic.
I appreciate that. Drama and I are currently not on speaking terms.
A couple of ERS staff members linger along the walls. They’re here as witnesses, not guests. Clipboards instead of programs. No flash photography. No beach resort overflowing with flowers, friends, and family.
Just contracts dressed up as vows.
I try not to think about my mother finding out about this from a carefully worded press release.
Or worse, a push notification.
Near the back wall, another couple waits their turn. The man looks well-dressed and profoundly bored, like this is a dentist appointment he didn’t want but couldn’t cancel. The woman beside him wears jeans and a sparkly handbag and stares at the paperwork like it might still dissolve if she glares hard enough.
