**CHAPTER 8** **WINNIE** My hands tremble as I clutch the letter in my lap, the world around me blurring into a haze. I have pored over its contents a hundred times since it landed at my door last night, the mere image of it igniting a whirlwind of emotions within me. I had been sprawled across my couch, a cascade of memories swirling through my mind, when the knock came—a sound that would forever change the course of my life. *Winnie,* *We don’t know each other well, but I want this wedding to be everything you want it to be given the circumstances. I have started an account with every bridal store in the area. I’ve given them strict instructions to spare nothing when it comes to you choosing the perfect dress for tomorrow. I’m eager to discover what dress you choose.* *I hope in time, I can change your mind about trusting me.* *I’ll be waiting for you at the altar.* *Yours,* *Archer* The word “yours” dances hauntingly across my mind like a double-edged sword. It’s an intriguing choice, one that I’ve dissected and mulled over, speculating on the myriad of reasons behind it. In the eyes of society—and the law—he will indeed be mine. But I refuse to relinquish my heart to him. Or so I tell myself, even as the sweetness of his letter lingers, weaving doubt into my resolve. With a shaky breath, I fold the letter carefully, slipping it into my clutch as if it holds the very essence of my turmoil. When I had first agreed to marry today, I imagined a modest affair, perhaps donning something simple from my wardrobe that barely resembled a wedding dress. A courthouse, a whispered “I do,” devoid of the fanfare—a fleeting moment that didn’t really feel like a wedding at all. But Archer had other plans. Gazing into the mirror, I find my reflection igniting an array of feelings. The dress I finally settled on envelops my body like a second skin. At first, I had resisted the idea of a traditional wedding gown, having long mourned the childhood dreams of a fairytale wedding that seemed to slip further from my grasp. Yet the more I savored the weight of that decision, the more my curiosity grew, urging me to seek out the perfect dress. At the very first bridal shop, when I stepped into that exquisite gown, emotion cascaded over me like a rushing tide. The assistant, eyes twinkling with enthusiasm, mistook my tears for pure joy—believing I had found my ideal dress that heralded a lifelong commitment. But in that moment, the truth weighed heavily on my heart; I wasn’t celebrating finding “the one,” but lamenting a life-altering choice, thrust upon me by circumstances beyond my control. The tears fell for both the dress and the reality it represented—a marriage steeped in anything but love. I trace the delicate satin and lace details, caressing the long sleeves adorned with silk buttons that run from my elbows to my wrists. The neckline teases the imagination, carving gracefully along my collarbones, accentuating the shape of my body. It clings to my curves until it flares out in a stunning trumpet shape, flowing into a train that dances behind me—a silhouette dreamt of for a day that, in my heart, feels all but diminished. I had opted to bustle it for practicality, leaving the veil aside, yet as the assistant pinned it in place, fresh tears brimmed in my eyes. I looked like a bride. I just didn’t feel like one. As I peer into the mirror, the reflection staring back is devoid of the ecstatic glow typically reserved for a wedding day. Instead, tiredness shadows my gaze, the dullness of my skin betraying the elation I should feel. I can’t shake the relentless ache of longing for a different path—a desire to marry for love, not obligation. Where hope should soar, apprehension tightens its grip. I gently dab at my eyes, trying to maintain the careful makeup I had applied meticulously that morning. But as I accidentally smudge my mascara, I fumble for a tissue on the small table inside St. Michael’s changing room, desperate for calm. Another knock interrupts my thoughts, sending a tremor through me. I brace myself, anticipating my father or perhaps my mother, but the figure that steps through the door leaves me breathless. “Archer?” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He closes the door behind him, his presence filling the space with charged electricity. Our eyes lock, and for an eternity, we remain suspended in a moment heavy with unspoken feelings. It’s a transient stillness that speaks volumes, leaving me struck by the astonishing realization that this man—this future husband of mine—has somehow taken my breath away. “Hi,” he manages to croak out, clearing his throat, looking as if he’s been blindsided. “Hi,” I reply, inexplicably nervous under his intense gaze. He takes a cautious step forward, as if unsure how close he can come. It’s a strange sensation; he seems more imposing today, not merely due to his tall, fit build, but because of the weight of what’s to come. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that accentuates every line of his physique, he stands as a vision of untouchable grace. His eyes roam my form, searching—and something stirs in the space between us that hints at an unexpected connection. “I wanted to check on you,” he says softly, his tone more considerate than I had anticipated. “I haven’t run off, if that’s what you were worried about,” I manage to joke, hoping to slice through the palpable tension. A soft laugh escapes him, and for a moment, the air lightens. “I didn’t think you would.” The weight of silence falls between us, laden with uncertainty. There’s no guidebook for this moment—no script for two strangers, bound by circumstance, preparing to exchange vows to salvage reputations and protect a legacy. But as he stands there, his gaze filled with a tenderness I did not expect, I can’t help but wonder if the marriage may hold more than I feared. Could it possibly be better than the grim picture I had painted? “Have you heard the saying that the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before their wedding?” I ask hesitantly. He smiles, a wispy grin breaking through the seriousness that usually cloaks his features. “I think we’ve already shattered so many traditions today.” My fingers nervously intertwine in front of me, unsure of how to navigate this uncharted territory. It feels strange to remain untouched when we’re on the brink of becoming one, yet the intimacy of our limited knowledge of each other feels even stranger. “You okay?” he inquires gently, the sincerity in his voice almost disarming. Braving the confrontation of his gaze, I’m startled by the warmth reflected in his eyes—his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. Everything else about him is rigid—the tautness of his jaw, the formality of his posture—but his eyes remain soft, inviting me to respond. “As okay as one can be when marrying a stranger because someone they cared for exploited their trust,” I murmur, the bitterness seeping into my words. A flicker of tension grips his features, and I swear I see anger flash behind his calm exterior, the tight lines of his mouth darkening as he exhales sharply, stepping back to steady himself. “The dress is magnificent,” he remarks, his voice shifting away from the earlier tension. “You look magnificent.” Heat floods my cheeks at his compliment, stirring a blend of pride and embarrassment within me. “You didn’t have to buy me a dress,” I reply, acutely aware of the luxury and elegance it exudes. The bridal assistant had been adamant about ensuring I received everything I wanted, regardless of the price tag, but standing in this expensive gown, I can’t help but feel undeserving. With an indrawn breath, he surprises me, reaching forward to lift my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. The warmth of his hold leaves no room for escape, a possessive grip that commands my attention. “If this marriage is going to work,” he begins, his voice low and serious, “there’s something you need to understand.” A rush of anticipation floods through me as the air thickens with tension. “And that is?” His hold tightens, demanding my undivided focus. “I am not a man who acts out of obligation. I do as I please, and no one dictates my actions, Winnie. I didn’t have to buy you anything; I wanted to.” His declaration reverberates within me, igniting a conflicted yearning. The way he grips my jaw elicits a shiver, pulling me into an electrified space I hadn’t known I craved. “Understood?” he presses, his voice rough yet compelling. For a heartbeat, I find myself unable to respond, paralyzed beneath his gaze. All I can do is attempt a nod, my heart racing under the weight of his intensity. “Good girl,” he murmurs, easing his grip but holding me still in proximity. The deep resonance of his words echoes in the room, leaving me momentarily dizzy. A silence falls between us, creating space for me to regain my bearings. What is happening? Just days ago, he stood as the adversary to everything I believed in. Now, he has me precariously balanced on the edge of attraction and uncertainty. As I grapple with my emotions, Archer reaches into his pants pocket, producing an emerald-green velvet box. My eyes widen as he avoids direct eye contact, a hint of shyness flaring in a man so assured. “I know this isn’t traditional,” he explains, opening the box to reveal a breathtaking diamond ring nestled within. “Yet, to the world, you’ll be my wife. You deserve one of the finest things money can buy sparkling on your finger.” My breath catches as wonder washes over me. “Archer…” My voice falters, overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur of the ring before me. “No.” It escapes my lips in a breathy whisper. The thought of such opulence—so grand and costly—terrifies me. I can’t accept something so extravagant. What if I lost it? I’m not a worthy bride; I don’t belong in this fairytale. “Yes,” he asserts firmly, stepping closer until we’re toe to toe. He pulls the ring gently from its confines, the weight of my reluctance resonating in the charged space between us. “We’re moments away from being husband and wife, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give you the best ring money can buy.” Before I can muster my thoughts, I find my hands retreating behind my back instinctively, resisting the impending weight of responsibility. This ring doesn’t symbolize my worth as a partner in this twisted arrangement—surely a simpler band would suffice for what this is. A disapproving sigh escapes Archer’s lips, and his gaze remains locked on mine, unwavering. With deliberate slowness, he seizes my wrist, effortlessly drawing it forward despite my feeble resistance. My heart thunders in my chest as he slides the ring onto my finger, the weight of it heavy with implications. “I can’t wear this,” I protest, panic fluttering inside of me. “You will wear this,” he states, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth as he steps back, satisfaction radiating from him. “Archer, no,” I plead, the finality of his actions suffocating me. But he shakes his head, his broad grin glowing outright as he stands in the frame of the door. How is it that he looks even more captivating when he smiles? It’s as if every woman in New York is drawn to him, and I—an ordinary girl flung into extraordinary circumstances—feel the insatiable warmth of that smile melting any resistance I had left. “My ring looks stunning on your finger, Winnie. I’ll see you at the altar.” With a gentle nudge, he glides out of the room, the door closing softly behind him, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I inhale deeply, my heart racing with the uncharted possibilities that lie ahead.