Beside a Stranger
Vivienne
The first time I see my husband on our wedding day, he’s standing beneath stained glass windows in full dress uniform with his hands clasped behind his back like he’s waiting for a briefing instead of a wedding.
For one irrational second, my mind catches on the absurdity of how handsome he is.
Men from my world tend to be polished. Everett Carrington looks carved out of something harder.
Taller than every man around him by several inches, broad shoulders stretching the dark fabric of his uniform, ribbons and medals stark against midnight blue wool. His dark blond hair is clipped short in military precision.
He looks dangerous. And completely emotionally detached from the fact that we’re about to get married.
My father, Secretary of State William Monroe, squeezes my arm once before releasing it.
“Stand tall, Vivienne.”
Easy for him to say. He isn’t the one walking toward a practical stranger .
The music swells through the chapel, deep and solemn, bouncing off old stone and polished wood. White roses line the aisle. Official photographers moved discreetly through the chapel while credentialed press waited outside beyond security barriers.
Politicians. Diplomats. Military officials. Their wives.
Everyone watches me.
I smooth my damp palms against the satin of my dress and force myself to move.
One step.
Then another.
My heels echo softly against marble as I walk toward Everett Carrington.
Toward my husband.
He doesn’t look at me while I approach.
That hurts more than I expect it to.
Instant affection was never part of the bargain.
That would be easier, somehow.
Everett and I had met before this. Never anything resembling a date.
The meetings had been carefully orchestrated by our families. A dinner at my father’s residence. A charity gala. A brunch where both families discussed polling numbers between courses. Another dinner where Senator Carrington spent more time talking about military appropriations than his son.
All of Washington knew our fathers.
Republican Senator Richard Carrington and Secretary William Monroe had spent years on opposite sides of some of Washington’s most public political fights.
Washington loved the symbolism.
The son of a Republican senator. The daughter of a Democratic Secretary of State.
A bipartisan fairytale everyone else seemed eager to celebrate.
I remembered details from every conversation we’d shared. Sometimes I wondered if he remembered any of mine.
Instead, standing beside him now, this still feels painfully one-sided.
I spent the last month trying to prepare for this marriage.
Reading the packet they gave me about him until I practically had parts memorized.
Major Everett Michael Carrington. Thirty-four. Marine Raider officer. Decorated combat veteran. Favorite coffee: black, one sugar. Sleeps poorly after deployments. Prefers nonfiction. Dislocated left shoulder in Afghanistan six years ago.
Some things came from the packet.
Others came from those awkward family meetings.
Fly fishing in Montana with his grandfather.
Hiking whenever he managed to take leave.
A preference for quiet places far away from Washington.
Small details I had collected because I assumed one day they might matter.
Tiny details from Everett’s life that somehow felt intimate at two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep.
Meanwhile, standing beside the altar now, Everett looks like he doesn't even remember my name.
I stop beside him at the front of the chapel.
His gaze flicks briefly toward my bouquet.
My fingers are gripping the stems too tightly. White knuckles against green ivy.
For the briefest second, I think he might say something. Instead, his attention returns to the priest.
No acknowledgment at all beyond the slight tightening of his jaw when I move into his peripheral vision.
The priest begins speaking, his voice warm and practiced, but it all blurs together under the roar of blood in my ears.
I keep my gaze forward.
Keep breathing.
This is political, I remind myself.
Strategic.
It could still become real.
My parents’ marriage started as strategy too. Most marriages in Washington did, whether people admitted it or not. Love often arrived later.
Sometimes commitment came first.
Sometimes affection grew later.
Grand romance never factored into my expectations.
My parents had taught me better than that.
But I had grown up watching two people choose each other every day after an arranged beginning.
Fairy tales had never been the goal.
Just partnership.
Kindness.
A chance to build something.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for weeks.
The priest turns toward Everett first.
“Do you, Everett Carrington, take Vivienne Monroe to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Everett’s voice is deep when he answers.
Steady. Controlled. Military calm.
“I do.”
No hesitation. His voice remained steady and unreadable.
The words still settle heavily in my chest.
Then the priest looks at me.
“Do you, Vivienne Monroe, take Everett Carrington to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I finally glance up at him.
His profile is sharp and unreadable beside me. Ice blue eyes fixed straight ahead beneath the glow of stained glass.
He still won’t look at me.
“I do,” I whisper.
A hush falls over the chapel.
The priest smiles warmly as he continues the ceremony, but I barely hear him now. My bouquet trembles slightly in my hands, white roses and ivy tied together with a blue silk ribbon.
Everett stands beside me like stone.
Just detached.
As if this is another obligation to survive.
“By the power vested in me,” the priest says finally, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The room shifts with anticipation.
Then comes the line that makes Everett visibly tense for the first time.
“You may kiss the bride.”
His shoulders stiffen.
A camera flash pops somewhere near the back of the chapel.
So slowly it almost hurts, Everett turns his head toward me and finally looks at me for the first time.
The impact of it steals my breath.
His eyes are startling up close. Pale blue. Intense. Assessing.
Warmth never reaches them.
Like he’s only now fully registering that I exist.
I can practically feel his reluctance radiating off him, and humiliation burns across my skin.
“You don’t have to,” I murmur softly. “I understand.”
His expression doesn’t change.
For one terrible second, I think he might actually agree and walk away without kissing me at all.
Instead, he reaches up and cups my jaw.
The touch surprises me.
His hand is warm. Rough. Calloused.
Then he leans down.
The kiss is brief.
Careful in the wrong way.
Like he’s completing a required task.
His lips barely press against mine before he pulls away again, jaw tight beneath the faint shadow of beard across his face.
A few polite claps echo through the chapel.
Everett releases me immediately.
His jaw remains tight.
Camera flashes erupt around us.
For a moment, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Then, after the briefest hesitation, he offers me his arm.
The gesture is proper.
Expected.
The sort of thing a senator’s son and a Marine officer would do automatically.
“Ready?” he asks.
The word sounds more like duty than anticipation.
Still, relief loosens something inside me.
“Yes.”
Together, we turn toward the aisle. The late autumn air outside is cool against my skin. Black government vehicles line the curb while Secret Service and military personnel move with quiet efficiency around us.
Everett climbs into the back of the lead SUV without so much as glancing behind him.
The driver opens my door.
I slide inside carefully, satin whispering against leather seats.
The door shuts.
Silence fills the car instantly.
Everett sits beside the opposite window, one arm braced against the door, gaze fixed outside as DC passes by beyond dark glass.
The city glows gold and gray beneath cloudy skies.
I fold my hands tightly in my lap.
My wedding ring feels strange and heavy against my finger.
Neither of us speaks for almost five full minutes.
Then finally he speaks, “You handled that alright.”
His voice sounds rougher inside the quiet car.
I blink, almost startled he’s speaking to me at all.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “You did too. I guess.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. “Right.”
That single word falls between us and dies there.
The silence returns.
I study him carefully while pretending not to.
He smells faintly like cigar smoke and something darker underneath. His posture remains rigid despite the luxury vehicle around us, every inch of him still military.
Like every muscle remains prepared for orders.
“We’ll be at Blair House in twenty minutes,” he says eventually.
“Oh.”
Another long silence.
Outside, reporters gather near barricades as our motorcade slows near the entrance.
Everett finally looks at me again.
“They’ll introduce us first,” he says. “Then we mingle separately.”
I blink. “Separately?”
His brows lift slightly, irritation flashing across his face.
“It’s a reception,” he says flatly. “Not a date.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“I just assumed,” I begin to say.
“I’ve got military brass and administration officials to deal with,” he continues. “You’ll probably get pulled toward the diplomatic crowd. The wives.”
The diplomatic crowd. The wives.
Like I’m an assignment already categorized and delegated.
“Yes, of course. You’re right.” I look away from him. “My mistake.” I look down at my hands.
The SUV stops.
The driver opens Everett’s door first. My husband exits the vehicle without another word.
The flashes outside explode instantly.
I inhale slowly before stepping out after him.
Smile.
Stand tall.
Perform.
Years of political upbringing settle over me like armor as I straighten my shoulders and move through the cameras beside Everett. Being Secretary Monroe’s daughter meant learning how to smile through discomfort before I was old enough to vote.
Or technically behind him.
He walks several paces ahead the entire time.
By the time we enter Blair House, my feet already ache.
The reception is enormous.
Crystal chandeliers spill golden light across polished floors while military officers, senators, ambassadors, and political families mingle through the rooms in gowns and tuxedos. A string quartet plays softly near the staircase.
Everywhere I look, people are watching us.
Watching me.
Everett disappears into conversation with a general less than three minutes after we arrive.
Just gone.
He offers no introduction, no reassurance, no quiet “you alright?” before disappearing into conversation.
I stand awkwardly near a marble column pretending not to notice.
A familiar ache starts building behind my ribs.
Anxiety. Loneliness.
A woman in sapphire blue approaches me first with a warm smile.
“Vivienne.”
Relief nearly weakens my knees.
“Yes.”
“I'm Clara Mercer. My husband works in Political-Military Affairs at State.”
Clara quickly gathers me into a small cluster of military wives and political spouses.
Across the room, two older men stood near one of the fireplaces.
Their voices carried across the room before I could avoid hearing them.
“Monroe and Carrington,” one of them said.
“A Secretary of State’s daughter and a senator’s son. Washington hasn’t seen a match like this in decades.” The other laughed softly.
“The optics alone are incredible.”
“Not to mention what it does for the senator.”
“And the major.”
My stomach tightened.
“Promotion board will love it.”
The conversation moved on.
I stood perfectly still, champagne untouched in my hand.
They were talking about my marriage the same way people talked about legislation.
Like strategy and leverage. Something to be negotiated and measured.
Something deeply personal reduced to strategy and leverage.
They ask me questions. Compliment my dress. Offer champagne.
And eventually, inevitably, they ask about Everett.
“What’s he like at home?”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of the question.
“He’s quiet,” I say carefully.
That much is true.
“Terrifyingly quiet,” another woman jokes.
The group laughs softly.
I smile because I’m supposed to.
But inside, humiliation curls tighter and tighter around my chest.
I hear Everett’s voice across the room once. Low and calm among a group of officers, but he never looks in my direction.
Not once.
By the time Clara quietly suggests stepping outside for fresh air, relief floods through me so intensely it almost feels embarrassing.
The garden behind Blair House is peaceful compared to the suffocating noise inside.
I sink onto a stone bench beneath climbing ivy and close my eyes for a moment.
Birdsong drifts through cool air.
The fountain nearby trickles softly.
“I’ll come check on you in a bit,” Clara says kindly before slipping back inside.
“Thank you.”
Then I’m alone.
Finally.
The pressure behind my eyes burns.
I tilt my face toward the gray sky and let myself breathe for the first time since walking down the aisle.
This isn’t what I imagined.
At least, not entirely.
I hadn’t expected romance.
But I thought there would at least be partnership.
Politeness. Basic kindness.
Instead I feel like an accessory Everett forgot he was wearing.
Movement near the fountain catches my attention.
A small bluebird lands on the stone edge, tiny feet tapping softly against marble.
I stare at it.
The bird stares back.
A laugh almost escapes me.
“When I was little,” I whisper, “my father used to tell me bluebirds meant better days were coming.”
The bird tilts its head.
Then chirps softly.
The sound nearly undoes me.
Because suddenly I miss home. My mother. The familiar rhythm of my old life.
My mother's sister, Aunt Rebecca, had hugged me before the ceremony and held my face between her hands for a long moment.
You look so much like her today, she’d whispered, eyes shining with tears she was trying desperately to hide. Your mother would be so proud of you, sweetheart.
At the time, I’d smiled and thanked her because there had been photographers everywhere and too many people watching.
Sittin in a garden behind Blair House with tears burning behind my eyes, the words hurt differently.
I wished my mother had been there to say them herself.
And before I can stop it, one tear slips down my cheek.
I wipe it away quickly.
The bird hops closer instead of flying off.
“At least you came to check on me,” I whisper.
“Talking to wildlife now?”
The deep voice behind me startles me so badly I nearly jump.
Everett stands beneath the ivy archway still in his dress blues, ribbons catching faint light beneath the climbing ivy.
The bluebird immediately takes flight.
I watch it disappear before looking back at my husband.
“Hello.”
His gaze lingers on my face for one brief second too long.
Like he notices I’ve been crying.
But if he does, he says nothing about it.
“They’re serving dinner.”
Practical. Detached.
Always practical.
“Of course.”
I stand, smoothing my dress automatically.
Everett turns immediately toward the doors leading back inside.
And once again, he walks ahead of me instead of beside me.
I stare at his back while humiliation burns through my chest all over again.
Maybe this is simply who he is.
Maybe military men are colder than I expected.
Or maybe Everett Carrington had walked into this marriage already knowing something I didn’t.
Because every time I looked at him, I felt like he was waiting for it to be over.
