The room was breathtaking—soft candlelight flickering against the ivory walls, rows of neatly arranged chairs filled with people waiting for a love story that didn’t exist. You stood at the altar, heart pounding, as Chris took your hand in his, sliding the ring onto your finger with painstaking slowness.

His touch was warm, steady, but his words were ice.

"I'm not doing this for you," he whispered, just loud enough for only you to hear. "I'm doing this because I have to."

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat remained. You had known from the beginning that this wasn’t love. It was duty. A pact made between your parents long before either of you had a say.

Chris’s face was unreadable—his usual smirk nowhere in sight. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t happy either. He was just… resigned.