Chapter 8 Unreal marriage
Hannah
The car came to a stop with a soft crunch of gravel, the engine idling like it was reluctant to die.
I stared out the window at the house that was now, apparently, also mine.
It was massive. Coldly beautiful. All sharp lines and towering glass, iron gates closing behind us with a finality that made my chest tighten. This wasn’t a home. It was a fortress. Somewhere people came to hide, not live.
Timothy was out of the car before the driver had fully turned off the engine.
I followed a second later, my legs stiff, my body still trapped in the stiffness of the day. The door shut behind me with a dull thud, sealing me inside this new reality.
Inside, the foyer was cavernous. Marble floors gleamed under a crystal chandelier, the light reflecting off polished surfaces that looked untouched by warmth. My footsteps echoed too loudly. I suddenly felt very small, standing there in my wedding dress that already felt ridiculous on me.
Timothy didn’t take his coat off. Didn’t loosen his tie. He turned to face me like he was about to deliver a business briefing.
“Let’s make something very clear,” he said coolly. “This is not a real marriage.”
I flinched anyway.
“You will stay out of my way,” he continued, voice measured but cruel in its precision. “You will not touch my things. You will not go into my rooms. You will not pretend we’re a couple in private just because we were forced to do it in public.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“This house is big enough that we don’t have to see each other unless absolutely necessary,” he went on. “I suggest you take advantage of that.”
“I understand,” I said quietly.
His eyes flicked over me with thinly veiled disdain. “Good. Because if you make this harder than it already is, I won’t be kind.”
With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing until they disappeared down a corridor I hadn’t even noticed.
I stood there alone in the foyer, my heart pounding, the silence pressing in from every direction.
A few moments later, footsteps approached, slower this time.
A middle-aged woman appeared from the left hallway. She had her hair neatly pulled back, wore a simple black dress, and carried herself with a professional stiffness that made her feel more like part of the house than a person in it.
“Mrs. Blackwood,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “My name is Lisa Samson. I’ll be assisting you while you’re here.”
Her tone was polite. Distant and unfeeling.
“Oh,” I said, fiddling with my fingers. I tried to give her a big friendly smile. “Thank you.”
“If you’ll follow me,” she said emotionless, already turning.
My smile fell but I hurried after her, my dress rustling softly against the marble. She led me through a series of halls, pointing things out without much emphasis.
“This is the main living room. The dining room is through there. Mr. Blackwood usually takes his meals privately unless there’s an engagement.”
Usually. Not sometimes. Not occasionally.
My stomach twisted.
She stopped at the base of a staircase. “Your room is upstairs. Mr. Blackwood occupies the west wing.”
So far away it might as well have been another house. It was becoming clearer and clearer how this sham of a marriage was going to be.
“Dinner will be served at eight,” she added. “You’re welcome to join or have it sent to your room.”
“Thank you,” I said again, softer this time. She gave no response.
The room she showed me as mine was large, elegant, and impersonal. A wide bed dressed in white. Pale walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a garden that was so manicured I didn’t feel like I was allowed to touch. My suitcases sat neatly by the door, already delivered.
“This will be yours,” Lisa said. “If you need anything, please ring the bell by your bedside and inform the staff.”
She turned to leave.
“Uh…L-Lisa?” I asked quickly, stumbling over my words.
She paused but didn’t turn around.
I soldiered on with an awkward laugh. “Sorry, I-I don’t know if it’s okay to call you that or what I should call you…”
“Mrs. Samson will do just fine.” Her response was curt as she finally turned around to face me, her face blank.
“Oh. Oh, okay.” I said, unsure as I slightly stepped back and fiddled with my fingers. “Have you… worked here long?” I tried, grasping for something neutral.
“Yes.”
“Oh,” I said, again. “Mr. Blackwood….um, Timothy…my-my husband that is…I mean… is he…”
Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“He prefers his privacy. I am also not cleared to answer any prying questions,” she said curtly.
“I just meant,” I rushed, heat crawling up my neck, “what kind of person he is. So I don’t… upset him.”
Her eyes lasered into me then and I felt myself shrinking smaller. Her expression had hardened, professionalism snapping into place like armor.
“My job is to manage the house,” she said evenly. “Not to discuss my employer.”
I nodded quickly. “Of course. Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”
She inclined her head again, back to her blank professionalism. “You should freshen up and rest. Dinner will be ready later.”
Then she left. The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence rushed back in.
I stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, absent mindedly twiddling my fingers before reaching behind me to tug at the zipper of my dress. My fingers fumbled, clumsy with exhaustion. It took longer than it should have. When the dress finally slipped to the floor, I stepped out of it like shedding a skin I no longer recognized.
I hung it carefully in the closet.
Then I headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The water was hot, almost scalding. Steam filled the glass enclosure as I stepped under the spray, pressing my palms to the cool tile as the heat pelted my back. My shoulders sagged as something inside me loosened.
I told myself not to cry. I told myself I’d already done enough of that.
But the quiet was too loud. The walls too far away. The day replayed itself in fragments, Timothy’s eyes at the altar, Loretta’s turned back, his voice in the car saying ‘I hate that I’m married to you.’
My chest tightened.
A sob clawed its way up my throat before I could stop it.
I slid down against the tile, knees drawn up, water pouring over me as I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep the sound in. My breathing was fast and erratic, my throat tight as I forcefully shoved down the tsunami of emotion.
Eventually, the water cooled. My skin prickled. Once I felt somewhat in control of myself again, I forced myself to stand, to turn it off, to wrap myself in a towel and step back into the quiet room.
I dressed in loose housewear clothes, nothing restrictive. Nothing that required effort. Then I sat on the edge of the bed, damp hair clinging to my shoulders, and reached for my phone.
My fingers hovered over the screen. There was no one to call.
No friends. No family. No safe place to land. I scrolled through my contacts anyway, desperation making me stupid, stopping on names that hadn’t spoken to me in months. Years.
No one.
The realization hit me all at once.
I was married. Disowned. Hated. Alone.
A sound tore out of me before I could stop it.
I curled onto the bed, pulling my knees to my chest, clutching the pillow like it was the only thing anchoring me to the world. The sobs came hard and fast, wracking my body until my chest ached and my throat burned.
I cried until I couldn’t anymore.
Until the exhaustion swallowed the pain and I fell asleep, my tears dried on my cheeks.