I didn't like weddings. Never had.
They were noisy, inefficient, and full of speeches that should've been emails — long loops of sentiment that made people feel useful while accomplishing nothing.
This one didn't even have speeches to endure. No string quartet, no sweating best man, no aunt with a shaky phone filming from the aisle. Just the sour hum of the courthouse's fluorescent lights and a judge who looked like he'd lost a bet.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paper. Beside me, Emily gripped the bouquet the clerk had handed her, stems wrapped in ribbon frayed at the edges.
She wore white — not the storybook kind. The dress was clean-lined, architectural. Armor disguised as silk.
Her father sat two rows back, twisting his tie until it wrinkled. Daniel Carter had always struck me as the type who believed good intentions could outmuscle arithmetic. And here I was, cleaning up the consequences.
The judge cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"
Emily didn't nod. She didn't even look at me. Chin up, eyes ahead, the loose strand of hair near her jaw catching the light.
I gave my answers in the steady tone of a boardroom negotiation. She gave hers like a dare.
We traded rings. Mine fit perfectly — I'd measured three times. Hers slid on with the cool weight of something permanent. Her hand was steady, but I caught the small tremor at her wrist.
The judge pronounced us married. The clerk stamped the paperwork with a sound that felt like closing a deal. Except this one came with a human variable I couldn't model.
Outside, January wind bit through my coat. The courthouse steps were shallow, slick with salt grit. I put my hand at the small of her back. She didn't move into it, but she didn't pull away either.
Flashes went off before we reached the car. Three photographers I'd approved, and one I hadn't.
Victoria's doing.
We gave them two seconds — a glance, the frame they needed. Then I steered us to the limo.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar oil and citrus. The tinted windows blurred the city into watercolor.
For a while, we rode in silence.
"This is a mistake," she said finally, voice low, eyes on the window.
"Not for me," I said. "And not for you either — once you see how this works."
Her lips curved — not into a smile. "There it is. The pitch."
"It's not a pitch. It's context."
"I know what context looks like," she said. "I've watched bigger things eat smaller ones and call it efficiency."
She turned, meeting my eyes. Steady. Calculating. *She'll be trouble*, I thought — and not without admiration.
The driver took a corner. Outside, a florist shook frost off a bucket of carnations.
"You're angry," I said.
"No. Yes. But not just at you." She adjusted the bouquet on her lap, aligning the ribbon with precision.
"You'll see," I said. "The story you're telling yourself about me won't hold forever."
"I'm not telling a story," she said. "I'm reading the script you wrote."
We passed into the private lane under my building.
"Before we do the rest of the day," I said, reaching into my jacket, "there's one more detail."
I set the folded paper in her lap.
Her gaze dropped to it, then back to me.
"The part about public displays of affection," I said.
She exhaled slowly, the faintest spark in her eyes.
"Fine," she said. "Let
's see how well you plan spontaneity."