Amara's heels felt heavier with each step, like invisible hands pulling her back. The music swelled around her, blending into a soft hum that barely reached her ears.
Her eyes were locked—unintentionally—on a single figure standing amidst the sea of faces. Sophie.
For a second, she forgot the crowd. Forgot the flowers, the vows, the future waiting at the altar.
It was her.
The woman who once held her heart.
Her secret past.
Sophie was staring back at her with a stillness that didn't fit the occasion. No applause, no subtle wave. Just... presence. And the way her gaze pierced Amara—it wasn't passive. It was loaded. Familiar. Haunting.
Amara blinked the tears away quickly. Her grip on the bouquet tightened. Her lips curved into a smile that wasn't truly hers. She inhaled deeply.
She had two choices.
She could walk away—from the altar, from the man waiting for her, from this carefully orchestrated performance. She could let everything unravel in front of all their friends, family, and society. She could follow the tremble in her heart, the ghost of a love that once was and maybe still is.
Or…
She could walk forward.
Toward a life she didn't ask for but agreed to.
Toward Lorenzo, who, despite it all, had shown her kindness, charm, and a certain type of patience. He wasn't perfect. God knows, she still had doubts about him. But he wasn't a monster. He listened. He held doors open. He made her laugh sometimes.
Maybe, just maybe, she could learn to love him.
After all, there's divorce—right? That was always her quiet consolation.
Still, her stomach twisted at the thought. Was that really how she wanted to enter this marriage? With a backdoor exit in mind?
But more than that—what would it mean to run? To walk away now, with all eyes on her, to shatter her family's expectations, to destroy the poised, dependable teacher image she had spent years building? She was Amara Addison Martinez—the woman with strong conviction. Strength. Honor. Dignity.
Running would mean shame. Headlines. Gossip. Her parents' heartbreak.
No. She wouldn't allow that.
Even if her knees trembled, her hands shook, her heart screamed for answers—she knew what she had to do.
She began walking again.
Faster this time, as though trying to outrun her thoughts, the rapid thud in her chest.
The tears didn't stop, but she masked them with that practiced, gentle smile. The one she wore when her students gave her trouble. The one she used when parents asked personal questions. The one she had mastered in the mirror since childhood.
Everyone around her thought it was tears of joy. Relief. A bride touched by the moment.
They didn't see the war inside her.
The battle between duty and desire.
Between her past and present.
Between Sophie and Lorenzo.
Her eyes flicked briefly back toward the crowd. Sophie was still there. Still watching. Her expression unreadable.
And Lorenzo? He was waiting. Hand extended. Smile in place. But there was something else in his eyes now—concern. Uncertainty.
He had seen the hesitation. He had felt it. But he didn't flinch. Just stood there, like a man clinging to a single, fragile thread.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them.
Not love. Not yet. But maybe—understanding. A silent agreement to carry this illusion forward. To see where it would lead.
With one last inhale, Amara reached him.
She took his hand.
The music slowed, then faded.
They stood together at the altar, the weight of the moment pressing down on them like gravity.
And as the officiant began speaking, her mind echoed with a single, piercing thought:
I said yes. Now I have to mean it.