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The wedding logistics descended like an avalanche.
The estate trustees — the ones my parents had appointed — cared only about appearances. Would the venue be grand enough? Would it reflect well on the Harrington name? Not once did any of them ask whether I wanted any of it.
I handled everything alone. The venue walkthroughs. The seating charts. The guest confirmations. I skipped lunch three days in a row without noticing.
One evening, I went to confirm the final setup details at the wedding venue — and the coordinator blindsided me.
The main stage dimensions they'd agreed to? No longer possible. And they weren't apologetic about it.
"Miss Harrington, those are your options — take what we have, or find another venue. It's peak wedding season. We have a waiting list."
I stood in the middle of the empty ballroom, the cold evening air flooding in through the open service doors, stinging my eyes.
All the tension of the past weeks rose at once. I gripped my phone and couldn't think of anyone to call. Vivian was traveling. And Ethan — I hadn't let myself believe he'd care about something like this.
I was fighting back tears when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
"What's going on?"
I turned.
Ethan stood a few feet away, jacket draped over one arm, his collar open at the top button. He wasn't looking at me — his gaze had already moved to the coordinator.
He crossed the room without another word to me. When he spoke, his voice was completely even.
"Our contract specified exact dimensions. Every detail gets honored as agreed. If a single thing falls short, we'll be pursuing breach of contract."
The coordinator's expression changed immediately. There was a great deal of nodding.
When the matter was settled, Ethan came back to where I was standing and held out a cup.
Warm milk tea — the kind I'd offhandedly mentioned to Vivian during the dress fitting, the exact sweetness level I preferred. I hadn't said it loudly. I hadn't even been sure I'd said it within his hearing.
"From now on, when something goes wrong — you come to me. You don't have to carry it alone."
His voice was quiet. The words weren't dramatic. But they landed like a stone dropped into still water, and the ripples moved through me before I could stop them.
I took the cup. His fingers were warm again.
"Ethan." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "You don't have to do this. We're just — this is just an arrangement."
He looked at me. Something in his expression shifted — not quite a smile, but close. Genuine, somehow.
"The arrangement was our families' decision," he said. "But you're the one I'm marrying."
That night, I'd barely finished washing up when an anonymous text arrived.
Everything Ethan Blackwood has done for you — he's doing it to get his hands on the Harrington estate. Don't be fooled.
I stood holding my phone, the warmth of the evening dissolving in my chest.
Was it all an act?