Shane

Silence. That’s all there is, the moment my hand falls from my father’s grasp.

There’s no applause. No chatter. Just the heavy hush of anticipation as I step toward the podium, the cold weight of the room pressing down on me like a second spine. More than two hundred polished eyes track my every move—some curious, some smiling with feigned admiration, most indifferent—but all waiting.

In a ridiculous display—no doubt my mother’s doing—the spotlight finds me. It burns hot against my skin, casting everything beyond its glare into a blur of shadows and blinding gold. Christmas lights flicker like camera flashes along the towering trees flanking me, but even they disappear beneath the blaze of artificial light. 

It’s all so surreal. Like a nightmare I’ve been forced to step into—no warning, no chance to wake up in time to stop it.

I grip the edge of the podium to steady my hands. Somewhere in the crowd, a shutter clicks. The first of many, I’m sure.

I breathe slowly. In. Out. And then, in the quiet of my mind, I hear her voice.

Don’t let them break you.

I close my eyes just for a breath. Just long enough to remember what I told her. That they can’t break me. Because I’m no longer theirs to break.

I’m yours, Becca. I’ll only ever be yours.

And after this ends—whatever it takes, no matter the cost—I will make this up to you.

With renewed strength, my eyes open. My spine straightens. My shoulders square with the kind of posture my parents spent years drilling into me. 

And then… I begin.

“Amanda,” I say, my voice strong, practiced, yet somehow foreign in my ears. “Would you join me, please?”

She rises like she’s weightless. All grace and satin. Her smile could light up the cathedral dome at Saint Peter’s, and every step she takes is a study in perfect poise. 

A flutter of camera shutters follows, the mechanical click of approval echoing off the chandeliered ceiling.

She floats toward me like a fairytale princess walking toward her prince.

And I?

I take her hand. A practiced smile stretching across my face—polite, polished, camera-ready. 

And I feel myself split in two. 

Because the hand I want to be holding is miles away. Because this is a pageant. A performance. And I’m the lead in a love story written by someone else, for someone I’ll never be. 

The room leans in, breathless and eager. Like vampires poised to pounce, ready to twist this moment into whatever serves them best. 

I draw in a measured breath. 

Then another. 

And then I let the words fall straight from my heart. 

“Love,” I begin, keeping my tone soft. Intimate. Like I’m letting them in on a secret. Which, unbeknownst to them, is exactly what I’m doing. 

My words are a truth carved from the very foundation of my love for Becca. From everything that loving her has taught me. A truth that doesn’t belong to the girl beside me, but to the girl who changed everything. The one who owns every piece of me.

 This is my rebellion. 

My one chance to speak freely. To defy my mother’s script. To speak directly to Becca in words only she will recognize. 

Words meant for her and her alone.

“Love isn’t always loud. It doesn’t have to be extravagant or perfect. Sometimes… the truest kind of love is quiet. Steady. A choice made again and again, no matter the circumstances. No matter the cost, the risks, or your differences. Because nothing else matters but that one person in the world who finally sees you.”

I pause, eyes on the crowd—never on Amanda. Because she’s already getting too much from me tonight, and I refuse to give her this. 

These words aren’t for her. 

They’re for the girl I’m picturing in my mind. Sitting across from me in that diner booth, working on her assignment the night I took her shift. The girl who holds my secret love of the stars. Of Greek mythology. The girl who looks at me like I’m more than my money. More than my legacy. More than my name. 

“Love is the moments no one sees. The whispered promises. The comfort in the silence. It’s what keeps you grounded when the world tries to hurt you… to break you.”

My voice stays soft, careful not to give away more than the people in this room deserve. But inside, I’m unraveling, my heart splitting open with every word I utter.

“Real love doesn’t demand attention. It doesn’t need the spotlight. It just… is. Unshakable. Strong. Beautiful. Resilient. Even when everything around it falls apart. Hell, especially then.”

I swallow hard. My gaze drops, blinking against the weight of the lie I’m speaking into reality. 

“I think the truest, most sacred kind of love is the kind that saves you. Not by fixing what’s broken, but by seeing you exactly as you are… and choosing you anyway. By showing you what actually matters. By breaking you down to the simplest parts of what makes us human… and then building you back up. With comfort. Understanding. Compassion and care. All without demands. Without expectations that come with strings or negotiated terms.”

I lift my eyes again and force a smile. They shimmer with emotion I can’t quite contain as I speak the words meant for my Andromeda. 

My north star. 

My guiding light.

It’s more emotion than my mother would like, I’m sure. But I can’t help it. And as I scan the crowd, one thing becomes painfully clear: They think they’re witnessing a man baring his soul to the woman he loves. Which fits my mother’s narrative perfectly. 

But for me? 

The only face I see—the only heart I’m speaking to—is across town. 

Still believing in me. 

Still waiting for me, even after all this. 

This is for you, Becca.

Every word. Every breath. 

Every vow I pretend to make tonight belongs to you. 

I drop to one knee. And I don’t miss the collective gasp from the room, like they’re all thrilled to be a part of the spectacle. Privileged to witness the merging of two powerful families. Something they’ll carry back to their small, curated lives and brag about.

Without any more fanfare, I reach into my jacket and pull out the misshapen velvet box. The one I damn near crushed last night as the reality of what I’d agreed to do settled in. 

I open it carefully.

The gaudy, oversized diamond catches the light, blinding and ridiculous. 

Only then do I look at Amanda and speak the words scripted for her. 

“Amanda Grace Kline,” I say, eyes lifted to hers, voice smooth with practiced reverence that tastes bitter on my tongue. “You’ve stood beside me for years. Been with me since before we even knew what love was. From the moment I met you, I knew you were someone special. Someone who challenges me. Inspires me. Makes me better.” 

I pause for the required two seconds, just as my mother scripted. 

“I want more of that. And it’s why tonight, in front of the people who matter most, I want to ask you the most important question of my life.”

I pause again—four full seconds this time—just like Mother directed. (To, as she wrote in parentheses, build the suspense.) 

But as my chest tightens and images of Becca’s grief-stricken face flash behind my eyes, I lose count.

The pause stretches too long.

Too raw.

Too real.

I fight to pull it back. To force the emotion down before it breaks through my voice and gives me away.

My jaw locks. 

I swallow hard, then draw in one final, shuddering breath.

“Amanda Grace Kline,” I say, voice steadier now, but still hollow. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice trembling just enough to make her sound shocked, awed, and love-smitten. Her eyes shine with perfectly timed tears, and the room exhales like they’ve all been holding their breath.

Gasps. Applause. A woman near the front dabs her eyes with a linen napkin. Flashbulbs strobe like a thunderstorm of approval.

It’s like a bad dream I can’t wake from. 

Numb, I reach for Amanda’s hand. Slide the hideous ring onto her finger like I’m fastening a shackle. The diamond catches the light, obnoxiously bright under the cameras. 

The crowd eats it up. Whistles ring out. Cheers and laughter echo around us, like they’re celebrating the consummation of a fairytale, a happily-ever-after in the making. Like it’s magic. As if they actually believed in it. 

It’s a fucking joke.

I rise to my feet on autopilot. 

Remembering the script. The choreography. The lie. I pull her into my arms.

She falls against me like she thinks she belongs there. Like she’s more than eager to build up this moment, readying the crowd for the final phase of this PR-firm-engineered fantasy. 

But her body against mine… all I feel is silk and emptiness. Like holding a mannequin molded to fit someone else’s dream. 

There’s nothing between us. Not anymore. Not that there ever was anything close to the love that exists between Becca and me.

Still, I do what’s expected. I pretend.

Unable to bear the wrongness of it all, I shut my eyes and picture Becca instead. The weight of her in my arms. The way she curls into me like she’s chasing my warmth. Like she’s trying to soak me in. The soft sound she makes when she whispers my name like a prayer while we’re making love. 

For just a second, I let myself believe it’s her in my arms. That it’s her I’m promising forever to. When really… I’m just selling the lie. Cementing it as truth—if only for the cameras. Just long enough for them to capture the winning shot, so I can be done with this torturous charade.

Then Amanda looks up at me, wide-eyed and waiting for the kiss that will crown the moment. The final touch to seal the illusion. And for the first time… I hesitate.

Because I can’t do it.

I can’t kiss this girl. Not when my kisses belong to Becca. Not when my lips only want her. 

Plus, I can’t do that to her. I can’t let the image of me kissing someone else see the light of day. Can’t let it carve itself into her thoughts. Her fears. One kiss could undo everything we are. Could leave her doubting what she means to me. Who I am. It could haunt her every time she looks at me. 

A kiss—even a pretend one—feels like a line I’m not sure we could easily come back from.

So instead, I cup Amanda’s cheeks. Soft. Reverent. Like a lover would. Then I lean in and press a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. It still feels all kinds of wrong. A benediction soaked in guilt, but necessary just the same.

My eyes fall closed, and I send a silent apology out into the void.

I’m sorry, pretty girl. 

I’m so sorry you have to watch this lie unfold.

To the cameras, I look devoted to the woman in my arms. Worshipful. A prince kissing his princess—not quite the way my mother envisioned it, but close. Maybe even better, since it’s elegant. Classy but still romantic.

But a lie is still a lie.

The applause crashes over us like a wave, damn near knocking me off my feet when the grief slams into my chest.

Champagne corks pop. Crystal flutes clink. Somewhere, the quartet launches into a soaring rendition of Canon in D. It’s all so perfectly timed it makes my skin crawl.

The cheers rise. The cameras keep flashing as my parents close in, utterly glowing. My mother dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, beaming like this is everything she’s ever wanted for her only son. My father raises a glass in my direction like we’ve just sealed the merger of the century. And Charles Kline—the smug bastard—smiles like he just married his only daughter off to royalty.

Together, they pull us into position. Posing. Smiling. Turning us toward the best light as the photographers bark out instructions. 

Click. Flash. Click again. 

Like we’re not even people anymore. Just assets in a future headline.

Amanda’s eyes are wide with awe. She’s practically vibrating beside me. Glowing like she’s finally stepped into the life she’s always wanted.

Because that is all I am to her. 

To Charles. 

A means to an end. The crown prince. 

Their ticket to cementing their place amongst high society.

She curls into me, her fingers weaving with mine for the cameras, and I feel sick. When I lift her hand toward the crowd to show off the ring, something inside me shatters.

Quietly. 

Completely.

I glance around, desperate for someone—anyone—to see it. To notice that I’m not okay. That I’m breaking. But the only person who’s ever seen through the mask—the only one who’s ever cared enough to look—isn’t here.

She’s all the way across town, sitting in her tiny apartment, waiting for me. Needing me. Loving me. Not for who I am or where I come from—but for me. Shane. The hopeless romantic. The star-gazing optimist who believes in fate. In forever. In true everlasting love, that is meant to be. 

It’s for her that I keep standing. 

For her that I keep smiling.

Because even if this whole night is a lie, one truth still holds:

She’s my forever. 

And the second this ends… I’m rushing home to be with her.

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