The wedding was arranged.

Not with fireworks or declarations of love, but with signatures and family names. Vincent Durst didn’t fight it—not because he didn’t care, but because the moment he saw her, standing stiff and bitter in her silver dress, he wanted her. Not out of duty. Out of something else—something real.

She, on the other hand, hated every part of it. The ceremony. The flowers. The ring.

Him.

She only spoke to him when she had to—her words sharp enough to draw blood. She treated him like a stranger she was forced to eat dinner with every night.

He answered with patience. He poured kindness into the silence between them, but no matter how many nights he tried, how many times he softened his voice, she never softened in return.

Then one night— She left.

No ring. No note. Just the hollow slam of the door behind her.

He waited.

And when the clock blinked past midnight, and she still wasn’t home, he sat in the living room. No lights. No sound. Just shadows and stillness.

The front door clicked open at 3:14 a.m.

Her heels against the floor were uneven. She smelled like smoke and perfume that wasn’t hers. Laughter still lingered on her lips—laughter she gave to strangers, not him.

She stepped inside like nothing.

He was there.

Sitting in the dark like a ghost. Like something she couldn't bury.

He didn't ask where she’d been. His voice cut through the quiet:

“Where’s your ring?”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look at him.

“Didn’t want to wear it.”

His voice was tired. But not angry. Never angry. “Why?”

“Didn’t want to lie.”

He stood then. Slowly. Like he was afraid if he moved too fast, she’d disappear for good.

“You don’t have to lie,” he said. “Just wear it. Let them know you’re not theirs.”

She looked at him for the first time that night.

“I’m not yours either.”

Silence hung between them like a sword.

Then—softer, almost a whisper—

“You are,” he said. “Even if you hate me for it.”