The ceremony was short.
A judge. Two witnesses Amelia didn't recognize. Her father standing at the back, expression unreadable.
Ethan waited for her at the altar.
He wore a dark suit. No tie. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd run his hands through it one too many times.
Amelia walked toward him on legs that didn't feel like her own.
When she reached him, he took her hands. His were warm. Steady.
"You look beautiful," he said, quiet enough that only she could hear.
"Don't."
"It's not a line. It's an observation."
She stared at him. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"Because you're my wife."
"I'm your hostage."
His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "Those aren't the same thing."
The judge cleared his throat and began to speak. Amelia heard the words—love, honor, cherish—but they felt like they belonged to someone else's life.
Then: "You may kiss the bride."
Ethan didn't move immediately. He looked at her, searching her face for something.
"I won't," he said quietly, "unless you want me to."
Amelia's throat tightened. She should say no. Should pull her hands away. Should run.
Instead, she whispered, "Everyone's watching."
"I don't care."
"Do it quickly."
He leaned in. His lips brushed her cheek—not her mouth—soft and brief and strangely gentle.
Then he pulled back and turned to face the room.
"Done," he said.
And that was it.
She was Mrs. Ethan Hayes.
The reception was held at a restaurant Amelia had never been to. Private room. Chandeliers. Food she couldn't taste.
She sat next to Ethan, answering questions from strangers who pretended to know her.
How did you meet?
Ethan, she's lovely—where have you been hiding her?
You must be so happy.
Amelia smiled. Nodded. Said nothing real.
Ethan did most of the talking. His answers were smooth, practiced, revealing nothing.
When the last guest left and her father disappeared to "make a call," Amelia turned to Ethan.
"Who are you?"
He set down his glass. "Your husband."
"Stop saying that."
"It's the truth."
"It's a legal technicality."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair, studying her.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
"That's a long conversation."
"We have time."
Ethan was quiet. Then he stood and offered her his hand. "Walk with me."
She hesitated. Then she took it.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm, and he led her out of the restaurant and into the night.
The street was quiet. A few cars. A few lights. Ordinary.
They walked in silence for a block. Two.
Then Ethan stopped beneath a streetlamp and turned to face her.
"My family has been watching yours for a long time," he said. "Not because we want to. Because we have to. There's a debt—old, complicated—and you're part of it."
"I'm part of a debt?"
"You're the payment."
Amelia pulled her hand from his. "That's disgusting."
"Yes."
"And you're fine with that?"
"No." His voice was quiet. "But I'm not fine with you dying, either. And those are the only two options."
She stared at him. "You keep saying someone wants to hurt me. Who?"
Ethan looked away. For the first time, he seemed uncertain.
"I can't tell you that yet."
"Then we're done here."
She turned and walked back toward the restaurant.
He didn't follow.
But when she glanced back, he was still standing beneath the streetlamp, watching her.