“Do you want to walk in alone?” he asked, his voice low, comforting.
“I wanted my dad,” I whispered, feeling the ache in my chest. The moment I had imagined for so many years—walking down the aisle with my father beside me—was slipping away.
Harrison’s gaze softened, and he didn’t hesitate for a second. “Then we’ll do it our way.”
He offered his arm, and I took it. We walked into the light together.
The surprise in the room was palpable. Guests turned their heads, their eyes wide with shock. They hadn’t expected the groom to escort the bride down the aisle. But there I was, walking down the aisle with the man who had chosen me, the man who had shown up when no one else had.
The Day After: The Shocking Reunion
A week later, after the wedding and the honeymoon, I found myself standing on the patio of a country club, feeling the weight of everything that had happened. I had just returned the keys to the house, the house my family had been so insistent on controlling, the house where I had grown up and had once hoped to build a life with Harrison.
I walked into the room where my family was gathered for brunch. The table was set with mimosas, white linens, and the kind of laughter that only happens when people pretend to be happy. My father looked up as I entered.
“Sienna,” he said, his voice condescending and distant, as if my presence didn’t matter unless I was playing my part. “You came.”
I set the keys on the table with a firm clink, my voice
