Page 26 of Mile High Daddy

The muffled strains of the organ filter through the heavy doors, each note striking my nerves like a warning bell. My fingers curl into fists, the delicate fabric of the gloves they made me wear pulling tight against my skin.

I can’t see much through the veil covering my face, only a soft blur of white and gold. The weight of the dress feels oppressive, the tight bodice making it hard to breathe. It’s beautiful—of course it is. Long, elegant sleeves of delicate lace cling to my arms, and the skirt flares out in layers of ivory silk and chiffon, trailing behind me like a ghost. Tiny pearls are stitched into the fabric, catching the light with every movement, making me shimmer.

A dress fit for a princess. For someone who wants this.

Not me.

I glance toward the door, wondering if I can make a break for it, but I already know the answer. My father’s men are stationed everywhere—outside, inside, by the car. Watching me like hawks, waiting for the first sign of rebellion.

“Beautiful,” a voice says behind me.

I stiffen, not needing to turn to know who it is. My father’s tone is calm, almost admiring.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.

He steps closer, his polished shoes clicking softly against the stone floor. “You look just like your mother,” he says, and there’s something almost soft in his voice.

I whirl around, my heart pounding. “Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t bring her into this.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, just watches me with that infuriatingly composed expression. His suit is impeccable, as always, tailored perfectly to his tall frame.

“She walked down this same aisle, you know,” he says, nodding toward the chapel doors. “Right here, in this church.”

The words hit me like a blow, and I feel my knees weaken slightly.This place? This is where it all began?

I take a step back, shaking my head. “Why are you telling me this? Do you think that makes this okay? Do you think that makes me want this?”

His gaze darkens, his jaw tightening slightly. “I’m telling you because this is about family. Tradition. You don’t have to want it, Lila. You just have to do your part.”

“Do my part?” I laugh bitterly, though it comes out more like a choke. “You mean play along? Be your pawn?”

His expression hardens, and he steps closer, his voice lowering. “This isn’t a game. It’s your life. And I’m trying to save it.”

“By selling me off?” I spit back, the anger in my chest burning brighter.

“This marriage isn’t a punishment,” he says. “You’re part of it, whether you like it or not.”

I feel my throat tighten, the fight draining out of me. He doesn’t understand. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care.

He glances at the chapel doors as they creak open, the swell of organ music growing louder. “It’s time,” he says simply.

I look at him, my chest heaving with frustration and fear, but he doesn’t waver.

“Come,” he says, extending his arm. “You can be angry with me later. Right now, we have a ceremony to attend.”

I want to scream, to run, to do anything but take his arm. But as the men at the door glance in my direction, I realize I have no choice. Not yet.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I take his arm, my fingers trembling as I grip his sleeve.

The chapel is packed with people. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest, every beat echoing in my ears. I can barely see through the veil—just vague shapes and shadows. Faces blur into a sea of anonymity, and for that, I’m grateful. I don’t want to see their judgment, their curiosity, or worse, their pity.

My eyes drop to my shoes, the pristine white heels clicking softly against the stone floor with each step. I can’t stop the tears. They stream silently down my cheeks, soaking into the delicate fabric of my veil. My hands grip the bouquet tightly, the flowers trembling in my grasp. I focus on the movement of my feet—one step, then another—because if I think about where I’m going, I’ll collapse.

The organ music swells, and I’m aware of my father beside me, his presence solid and unyielding. He steers me forward like I’m some doll he’s programmed to perform.

At the end of the aisle, the figure of the groom comes into focus—a tall, broad silhouette standing at the altar, waiting. The sight of him sends a fresh wave of panic through me, but I force myself to keep walking. I have no choice.

We reach the altar, and my father places my hand in the groom’s. His hand is warm, strong, and it makes me flinch. I don’t look at him. I can’t.

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