Reluctant Vows

The morning of the wedding broke under a gray, unforgiving sky. It wasn’t raining, but the air felt heavy—like the heavens themselves were holding their breath. Christabel sat before the vanity, her fingers resting on the edge of the polished wood, staring at her reflection. The white wedding dress clung perfectly to her frame, but instead of feeling like a bride, she felt like a prisoner wrapped in silk.

Her mother entered quietly, adjusting the veil with trembling hands. “You look beautiful,” she said softly, but her voice carried a hint of sorrow, as if she too knew beauty couldn’t hide the truth of this day.

Downstairs, the house was buzzing with activity. Guests were arriving, music played faintly, and somewhere outside, cars lined up along the street. Every detail was perfect—except the bride and groom.

When the car pulled up to the church, Christabel’s heart began to pound. She stepped out slowly, her heels clicking against the pavement, each sound echoing like a countdown to something inevitable. At the entrance, Michael was already waiting. His sharp suit fit him flawlessly, his tie the exact shade of midnight blue, but his eyes… they gave nothing away.

They didn’t speak as they walked together down the aisle, side by side yet miles apart. The guests watched, whispering behind polite smiles, some wondering if this union would truly heal the rift between the Okoro and Ransom families—or if it would simply be a new battlefield.

The priest began, his voice steady, solemn. “We gather here to witness the union…” Christabel heard the words, but they felt distant, like an echo in a dream she couldn’t wake from. Her gaze flicked toward Michael briefly. His jaw was set, his hands clasped tightly, as if he too was forcing himself through the motions.

When it came time for the vows, her chest tightened. She took a slow breath before speaking.

“I, Christabel Okoro, take you, Michael Ransom, to be my husband…”

Her voice was calm, but her heart raced wildly, every word tasting like surrender.

Michael followed. His tone was steady, almost mechanical. “I, Michael Ransom, take you, Christabel Okoro, to be my wife…”

The rings slid onto their fingers, cold metal sealing what neither could undo. The kiss was brief, almost symbolic—a gesture to satisfy tradition rather than affection. Applause rippled through the church, but it sounded hollow in Christabel’s ears.

Outside, the photographers called for smiles, and they gave them—smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. At the reception, guests mingled, toasts were given, and laughter filled the air, but Christabel barely tasted her food. She felt like an actress in a play, reciting lines that had been written long before she was born.

Later that evening, in the quiet of the new house, she and Michael stood in their shared bedroom. The tension was thick, their silence louder than any argument could have been.

“I never wanted this,” she said at last, her voice low but firm.

Michael met her eyes. “Neither did I. But here we are.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, two unwilling soldiers bound by reluctant vows. And somewhere in the stillness, Christabel realized this was only the first battle in a war they would have to fight together—or not at all.

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