Flashback
The wedding wasn't supposed to feel like this.
I always imagined that if I ever got married, I would feel excited… nervous… in love. My hands would tremble because I was happy, not because I was being watched by dozens of strangers hired to make the event look perfect.
But on my wedding day, the tremble in my hands felt like shame.
The venue was grand — chandeliers dripping with crystals, white roses arranged so precisely it felt unnatural, tables lined with gold-rimmed glasses. Everything was expensive.
But none of it felt real.
Not even me.
I stood at the altar wearing a dress chosen by Ethan's assistant, not by me, with makeup done by a stylist who barely asked for my opinion. My hair was pinned up tightly, too tightly, as if even my curls were not allowed to breathe in his world.
Ethan arrived a few minutes late — not because he cared, but because he knew he could.
He walked in wearing a black suit so sharp it looked like it could cut someone. His expression didn't shift when he saw me. No smile. No surprise. No warmth.
Just a cold acknowledgment.
"You're ready," he said, as if it wasn't a question.
I swallowed. "Yes."
He didn't offer me his arm.
He didn't even look at me.
He simply took his place and waited.
When the officiant began to speak, Ethan's jaw tightened. He didn't like crowds. He didn't like emotional scenes. And he definitely didn't like pretending to love someone he married for convenience.
But he did it anyway — for the inheritance, for the board, for his power.
I was just a piece of the puzzle.
"Do you, Ethan Cole, take Liana Rivera—"
"I do," he said immediately, clipped, emotionless.
He barely let the officiant finish.
Humiliation burned in my chest.
When it was my turn, my voice wavered.
"I… I do."
I saw someone in the crowd frown — probably wondering why the bride sounded like she was being forced at gunpoint. Maybe I was. Not by a weapon, but by desperation.
Then came the kiss.
Ethan leaned forward, barely brushing his lips against mine. It was so quick, so clinical, that it felt like a stamp on a document — nothing more.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The photographers went wild.
We were a beautiful, successful couple on camera.
Behind the lens, however, we were strangers bound by ink and desperation.
When the ceremony ended, Ethan leaned down slightly, voice low. "Make sure you smile for the photos. People are watching."
I forced a soft smile — the kind that didn't reach my eyes.
He didn't smile back.
The photoshoot was a performance. He held my waist like I was made of porcelain. He whispered instructions in my ear, not sweet words. "Turn left. Fix your veil. Don't look at the floor."
Once, our eyes met.
Just once.
His expression softened — barely, like a shadow of something human flickering behind his usually cold gaze. It disappeared almost instantly, but I caught it.
Hope.
A tiny, foolish seed of hope.
Maybe he isn't completely heartless.
Maybe there's something underneath.
Maybe—
I shut the thought down. Hope was dangerous. Hope was deadly.
But that moment stayed with me.
Later that evening, we arrived at his penthouse — the place I would call "home" for the next year.
I stepped into the living room. The space was spotless, clean, expensive… and lifeless. No photos. No warmth. Just cold marble floors and a view of the city that felt more like a wall than a window.
"This is your room," Ethan said, leading me to a neatly arranged guest room. "If you need anything, ask the staff. I'll be in my office."
He started to walk away.
"Ethan," I blurted out. "Why me? You never answered that."
He paused.
His back was to me, but I saw his shoulders stiffen.
"You were practical," he said quietly. "Logical. And you didn't look at me the way others do."
"How do others look at you?" I asked softly.
He inhaled sharply. "Like they expect something."
"And I didn't?"
"You needed something," he corrected. "That's different."
Before I could say anything else, he walked off.
Cold.
Distant.
Unreachable.
That was Ethan.
But then…
Sometimes he slipped.
Once, I cut my finger while helping the housekeeper slice fruit. Blood welled up immediately. Before I could even react, Ethan appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my wrist gently, and pulled me to the sink.
"Hold still," he murmured.
He disinfected the cut, wrapped it carefully, even blew softly across my skin to ease the sting.
I stared at him, speechless.
This wasn't the Ethan I knew — the one who treated everything like a transaction.
This one looked… human.
He noticed me staring and dropped my hand instantly, almost stepping back like he'd made a mistake. "Don't read into it. It's nothing."
Another time, I came home exhausted from checking on my sick mother. I found a cup of warm chamomile tea waiting for me on the table.
I turned to Ethan. "Did you… make this for me?"
He didn't look up from his laptop. "Chamomile reduces stress. You looked tense."
"You noticed?"
His fingers paused on the keyboard.
A long beat passed.
Then he said, "Go rest, Liana."
It wasn't tenderness.
But it was something.
And that something grew inside me, slipping past my defenses, whispering lies into my heart.
Maybe he's changing.
Maybe he cares.
Maybe I'm not just a contract bride.
Maybe…
Present Day
I snapped awake in the hospital room, my heart aching from the memory.
Because that hope —
That tiny, stupid hope —
Was the reason I shattered so completely.
The room was dim now, lit only by the soft glow of the monitor. The nurse had left hours ago. The hallway outside was silent.
And Ethan…
He hadn't returned.
Figures.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and reached under my pillow with my good hand.
My fingers brushed against the envelope I hid.
The divorce papers.
I'd been carrying them for weeks. I couldn't bring myself to sign them before — not because of the contract, but because some part of me still wanted to believe he'd choose me.
But he didn't.
He chose someone else.
And I got a car windshield.
My hand trembled as I slid the papers out.
Every signature line stared at me like a dare.
Liana Rivera.
Ethan Cole.
Irreconcilable differences.
My vision blurred with tears, but I didn't wipe them.
"I should've done this sooner," I whispered shakily.
The pen felt heavy in my hand. My heart thundered, not from fear — but release.
I pressed the pen down.
Stroke by stroke, letter by letter, I signed my name.
LIANA RIVERA
My breath hitched. It was done.
I slid the papers back into the envelope and tucked it under the mattress, hidden from view. I exhaled shakily, closing my eyes.
Finally… I was free.
Or so I thought.