A Marriage Without Love
Oliver married Emily out of spite, to prove to his ex that her betrayal hadn’t crushed him. He and Sophia had been together nearly three years—madly in love, to the point of absurdity. He’d have given her the moon if it made her smile. He dreamed of a wedding, but Sophia cooled his enthusiasm: “What’s the rush? I haven’t even finished uni, and your business is barely scraping by. No decent car, no place of our own. Live with your sister in that tiny flat? No thanks—I won’t share a kitchen with Charlotte, even if she *is* my mate.”
Her words stung, but Oliver couldn’t deny the truth. He and Charlotte were crammed into their parents’ old flat in Manchester, and the family business he’d inherited after their deaths was hanging by a thread. He’d dropped out of uni to keep it afloat. They’d sold the countryside cottage—his sister agreed, business came first. By the time the money ran dry, debt piled up. Both were still students: him in his fifth year, Charlotte in her second. The sale covered the bills, restocked the shop, and left a little breathing room. But Sophia lived for the moment—she wasn’t the waiting sort. Her parents bankrolled her carefree life, while Oliver, suddenly the head of the household, saw things differently. He believed in the future: a house, a car, stability.
Then disaster struck. Oliver waited for Sophia outside the cinema, as agreed. She’d insisted he not pick her up—odd, given her hatred for buses. He scanned the crowd, only to see her pull up in a flashy Range Rover. “Sorry, we’re done. I’m getting married,” she said, thrusting some book into his hands before vanishing inside the car. Oliver stood frozen. What could’ve changed in the two days he’d been away?
Charlotte knew at first glance: “Found out, did you?” He nodded. “She’s landed herself a millionaire. Wedding’s on the 28th. Asked me to be a bridesmaid—I told her to sod off. Nasty piece of work, carrying on behind your back!” She burst into angry tears. “Easy,” Oliver hugged her. “Let her have her riches. We’ll do better.”
He locked himself in his room for a day. Charlotte knocked, pleading: “At least eat—I made scones.” By evening, he emerged, eyes blazing. “Get your coat.”
“What’re you on about?”
“I’m marrying the first woman who says yes.”
Charlotte protested: “This isn’t just *your* life you’re wrecking!”
But Oliver was adamant: “Come or don’t—I’m going.”
The park was packed. One girl laughed in his face; another bolted. The third, after studying his eyes, said: “Alright.”
“What’s your name, love?”
“Emily,” she replied. Oliver dragged her and Charlotte to a café to celebrate their “engagement.” Awkward silence followed. Charlotte fumed; Oliver seethed with revenge plans. His wedding? Same day as Sophia’s.
“Is there a reason you proposed to a stranger?” Emily asked quietly.
“If it’s a whim, I’ll leave—no hard feelings.”
“No. You said yes. Tomorrow, we file the papers and meet your parents,” he declared, flashing a grin. “And we’re on first-name terms now!”
The month leading up to the wedding was a whirlwind of dates. “Why *did* you ask me?” Emily pressed once.
“Secrets make life interesting,” he dodged.
“And why’d *you* say yes?”
“Felt like a princess handed off to the first bloke she meets. Fairy tales always end happily—figured I’d test it.”
Truth was messier. Emily had loved and lost, her savings wiped out by a con artist. It taught her to read people—flatterers got the boot fast. She wasn’t hunting for “the one,” but someone sharp and decisive. Oliver had both. Had he been with mates instead of his sister, she’d have walked right past.
“What kind of princess? Sleeping Beauty or Guinevere?” Oliver mused.
“Kiss me and find out,” she teased. But kisses didn’t come. Oliver planned every wedding detail; Emily just picked from his options. Even her dress—he bought it himself, insisting, “You’ll be the loveliest.”
At the registry office, they ran into Sophia and her fiancé. Oliver forced a smile. “Congrats,” he said, pecking her cheek. “Enjoy life with your tycoon.”
“Don’t make a scene,” Sophia snapped, eyeing Emily—tall, striking, regal. She felt smaller by the second. Jealousy gnawed at her; happiness slipped away like a bad bet.
“All good?” Oliver muttered to Emily.
“Still time to back out,” she whispered.
“No. We finish this,” he said. But in the ceremony, staring into his new wife’s sad eyes, guilt hit him. “I’ll make you happy,” he vowed—and meant it.
Life settled. Charlotte and Emily became inseparable. Hot-headed Charlotte learned patience; Emily, with her knack for numbers, streamlined the business. Within a year, they opened a second shop, then a renovation crew. Profits tripled. Emily had a gift—pitching ideas so well Oliver thought they were his own. By all accounts, life was sweet. Yet Oliver ached. No fiery passion like with Sophia—just steady, predictable comfort. “It’s routine,” he told himself. “I don’t love her. That’s all.”
Emily pushed further—custom homes, then mansions. Their first build was their own. But success made Sophia haunt him more. “*She* gave up. Imagine her seeing this—my car, my estate!” The “what ifs” grew louder. Emily noticed his distance. She tried to win his heart, but that wasn’t how love worked. “Not all fairy tales come true,” she thought bitterly. Yet she fought on—her name demanded it.
Charlotte saw it too. “You’ll lose more than you gain,” she warned, catching him on Sophia’s social media.
“Piss off!”
“You *idiot*! Emily *loves* you, and you’re playing games!”
Oliver snapped. But Sophia’s pull was stronger. He messaged her.
Sophia poured out woes: dumped, uni dropped, jobless, stuck in a rented room in Birmingham. Oliver wavered—go or stay? Emily left to visit an ailing aunt in the countryside. Temptation won. He booked a train.
He rode to Birmingham, giddy, picturing their reunion. Reality was a gut punch. “Look at you!” Sophia flung herself at him, reeking of sweat and cheap perfume. A too-short skirt, garish makeup—she was a ghost of the girl he’d known. “People are staring,” he said, recoiling.
“Who cares?” She cackled, downing a lager. “Loan me some cash—I’ll make it worth your while.” Oliver scrambled for an exit.
“Work,” he lied, standing.
“See you again?” she whined.
“Doubt it.” He tossed her a fifty and fled.
On the ride home, he cursed himself. “Absolute *plonker*. Charlotte was right!” Yet one thought soothed him: “I’ve *never* called my wife ‘Em.’ She’s my *person*.” It hit him like lightning. He braked, replaying their marriage. Emily’s face—green eyes, warm smile, fingers threading his hair—filled his mind. “I promised her happiness,” he whispered.
Turning the car around, he raced to her aunt’s cottage. “A week without you was too long. Couldn’t last two days,” he admitted as Emily ran outside.
“Madman,” she laughed through tears.
“Em, my love,” Oliver murmured, and their hearts beat in sync—full, at last.
