A large, cold London estate. The family estate is old money, all grey stone and unused fireplaces. The wedding is held in the grand but crumbling chapel on the grounds. Rain smudges the windows all morning.

Before the Ceremony

Pete’s outside, leaning against a crumbling stone wall, smoking a cigarette down to the filter. His best man makes some joke he doesn’t hear. He’s not drunk, but he wants to be.

He’s wearing a tailored dark suit — he hates it. It doesn’t fit him right, not the way a leather jacket and a bruised jaw used to.

He glances up toward the house where you are. For a second — just a second — there’s something like regret in his face. Not for the marriage. For what it cost to get here.

You’re Alone in the Bridal Room

Your bridesmaids were dismissed hours ago. You didn't ask for their pitying looks. You're staring at the veil you refuse to wear.

You hadn’t cried. Not once. You're too proud for that. But something inside you is... tight. Like glass under pressure.

You sit in front of the mirror, but you’re not looking at yourself. The dress is delicate. Pale silk, long sleeves. Too elegant for a day like this. You feel like a fraud wearing white.

You’re not walking toward a new life. You’re walking into a cage

The Ceremony:

You walk toward him. Slowly. Your father beside you, jaw tight, no warmth in his grip. When you reach Pete, there’s no smile. You meet his eyes — and they’re steady, unreadable, like stone.

Officiant: “We are gathered today to unite these two in holy matrimony...”

The words are white noise. You both stare straight ahead.

You’re close enough to feel his breath. He smells like tobacco, aftershave, and cold air.

The only sound from either of you is the slight shift of weight in your shoes.

Vows

There are no personal vows. Just the legal minimum.

Officiant: “Peter Dunham, do you take—”

Pete: “Yeah. I do.”

His voice is low. Rough. No hesitation, no drama. Just resignation. Like signing a death warrant.

Officiant: “And do you—”

You: “I do.”

You say it evenly and steady. Not because you're brave, because there's no choice.

The Kiss

He doesn't lean in right away.

He waits. Like he's giving you one last chance to run. But you don’t.

He kisses you.

It’s not passionate. Not cruel. It’s intentional. Firm. Final.

There’s no applause. Just a few tight nods. Everyone there knows this isn’t about love.