The Accidental Bride

“Marriages don’t work when one partner is happy, and the other is miserable. Marriage is about both people being equally miserable.” — Forget Paris.

Isabella

If my mother had told me once, she had told me a thousand times: a Montgomery does not sweat; she glows.

Currently, I was glowing through three layers of heavy silk, two stiff crinoline petticoats, and a custom French lace veil that felt suspiciously like a beautifully embroidered fishing net.

I stood in the holding room of the Trinity Parish Cathedral, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My knuckles were stark white, gripping the stems of my cascade orchid bouquet so tightly the green florists' wire was biting into my skin.

The chronic people-pleasing reflex that had governed the twenty-six years of my life had finally gotten the absolute best of me.

I had said yes to my mother’s endless charity gala planning, yes to my father’s demands that I represent the family’s hospitality empire. Now—in the ultimate crescendo of spinelessness—I was about to say I do to a man who currently ranked somewhere between a root canal and a surprise tax audit on my list of favourite things.

“You're holding those flowers like a weapon, Isa.”

The heavy oak door swung open, and my older sister, Evelyn Montgomery, slipped into the room. Her bridesmaid dress was a vibrant shade of champagne that beautifully contrasted with my ghostly, pristine white. Unlike the rest of our family, Evie had escaped the high-society matrix three years ago by marrying a public high school history teacher and moving to the suburbs. This officially made her the only person in a ten-mile radius I could trust not to give me a rehearsed corporate smile or check the current trading price of Montgomery International Hotels on their smartwatch.

“They might become a weapon if someone doesn't adjust this corset,” I gasped, trying to expand my lungs past a tight, three-inch radius. “I think the designer mistook my ribcage for a structural support beam.”

Evie walked over, her expression softening into genuine, protective concern as she smoothed down the cathedral-length train of my dress. She looked at me through the mirror, her eyes scanning my pale face.

“You look beautiful, Isa,” she said softly. “But you also look like you’re about to throw up on a tenth-generation family heirloom. You know you can still run, right? My Honda Civic is parked right by the kitchen’s side exit. We can be across the Canadian border by midnight. We’ll buy a cabin, change our names, and never look at a seating chart again.”

A wild, desperate laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I quickly forced my posture straight, terrified that a single slouch would cause the lace on my shoulders to tear. I smoothed the front of the heavy gown, watching the diamonds around my neck catch the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“I can't run, Evie. You know I can't,” I whispered. “The press is lined up outside. If I bolt, Mother will have a stroke, and Father will write me out of the family history books before I hit the state line. Besides... it’s just a business arrangement. It's legally binding.”

Evie sighed, reaching up to adjust a pin in my hair.

“Marrying a man who looks at you like you’re a parking ticket isn't a business arrangement, Isa. It's a hostage situation.”

“He’s a temporary headache,” I corrected, lowering my voice to a bare whisper. “It's three hundred and sixty-five days, Evie—exactly one year. We play the happy couple for the media to secure the merger, and the day after our first anniversary, the quiet, no-fault divorce papers get filed. I can survive anything for twelve months. You’re the only one who knows the truth on my side. If Mother or Father found out this was temporary, they’d confiscate my passport.”

“And Sebastian?” Evie asked, her eyebrows pulling together. “He hasn't let anything slip?”

“Please. Sebastian wants this over with as much as I do,” I scoffed. “He only told his best friend, Liam, because he needed someone to draft the hidden exit clauses without his father's legal team catching wind of it. The rest of the world thinks this is a match made in corporate heaven.”

Before she could argue further, the heavy brass doorknob turned, and the wedding coordinator—a terrifying woman named Helga who wore a headset like a general in the war—clicked her tongue sharply from the doorway.

“Two minutes, Miss Montgomery,” Helga snapped, checking her clipboard with military precision. “The string quartet has shifted to the processional. Your father is waiting. Let’s move, people.”

Evie gave me one last look of pity, squeezed my hand, and disappeared out the door, leaving me alone with my reflection for one final, agonizing second.

Just breathe, I told myself. Three hundred and sixty-five days. That's all this is.

The walk down the aisle was a nightmare of flashing cameras, whispering socialites, and the suffocating scent of imported white roses. Every head turned as I paced forward, my arm linked through my father’s stiff, tailored sleeve. He gave me a smile, his jaw set in a proud, triumphant line. To him, this wasn't a walk to give away his daughter—it was a victory lap.

But I wasn't looking at the crowd, or the stained glass, or my mother crying perfectly in the front row. My eyes were locked on the end of the altar.

There stood Sebastian Kingsley.

In his custom black tuxedo, with his dark hair perfectly styled and his broad shoulders squared, he looked every bit the billionaire heir the media loved to chase. He possessed the kind of sharp, aristocratic beauty that felt dangerous—high cheekbones, a granite jawline, and eyes the colour of a stormy winter sea. He stood perfectly still, a statue of absolute control.

As my father hand-delivered me to him, our fingers brushed for a fraction of a second. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to my ice-cold hands. I stepped up onto the altar beside him, the heavy veil doing nothing to block out the sheer aura of arrogance radiating off him.

Sebastian didn't turn his body, but as the priest stepped forward to begin the opening prayer, he leaned his head a fraction of an inch in my direction.

“Don't trip, Princess,” Sebastian murmured, his deep, gravelly baritone barely a whisper over the echoes of the chapel. “The stock prices drop five points for every clumsy mistake.”

I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, maintaining a blinding, picture-perfect smile for the front-row photographers.

“Shut up, Sebastian,” I whispered back, my voice dripping with venom behind my frozen smile. “If I fall, I’m dragging you down by your expensive lapels. And remember, you promised in our contract that you wouldn't use that condescending tone with me in public.”

A short, cynical breath escaped his nose—the closest Sebastian Kingsley ever came to a laugh. It was entirely devoid of warmth, though his lips curved into a mockingly handsome smile for the benefit of the guests watching our every move.

“Try to look happy, Isabella. Your mother is watching us like a hawk, and I’m pretty sure she can read lips.”

“I am happy,” I lied through my teeth. “I'm ecstatic. I’m currently counting down the exact number of minutes until our expiration date next year.”

“Charming.”

My mind started to wander. Three months passed in a blur. Our catastrophic first meet. The dinner. The engagement. Now the marriage.

“...Do you, Sebastian Vance Kingsley, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The priest’s voice snapped us back to the present. The warmth of the cathedral felt suffocating, and the scent of the lilies and roses were making my head spin.

I held my breath, waiting for the pause.

Sebastian turned his body to face me fully. His expression was a flawless mask of devotion, so convincing that I saw several elderly aunts in the front row sigh in unison. He looked down at me, his dark eyes trapping mine.

“I do,” his voice rang out, clear, steady, and entirely devoid of hesitation.

My heart did a frantic, erratic dance against my ribs. The priest turned to me.

“And do you, Isabella Marie Montgomery, take this man...”

The words faded into a dull hum in my ears. I looked at Sebastian. Up close, I could see the slight, arrogant curve of his lips—a silent dare. He knew I wouldn't run. He knew the Montgomery chronic people-pleasing gene would hold me hostage until the very end.

I swallowed the lump of absolute terror in my throat. I thought of Evie's dented Honda Civic. I thought of Canada. Then I looked at my mother, who was glaring at me with narrowed eyes, silently demanding perfection.

“I do,” I whispered.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest beamed, entirely oblivious to the silent warfare happening right in front of him. “You may kiss the bride.”

Sebastian stepped closer, his large hands coming up to gently lift the heavy lace veil. His movements were slow, deliberate, perfectly choreographed for the cameras.

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell his cologne—something expensive, smoky, and laced with cedarwood.

“Try not to bite me, Princess,” he murmured under his breath, his eyes dropping to my lips. “The photographers are zooming in.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Kingsley,” I breathed back.

Then, his lips met mine.

The kiss was a polite, brief display for the public.

Sebastian offered me his arm, his grip firm.

I placed my hand on his sleeve, feeling the rigid muscle beneath the fabric. The organ swelled into a triumphant, deafening march, and the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

As we turned to walk down the aisle together—not as real spouses, but as temporary partners tied to a strictly timed one-year corporate sentence—Sebastian leaned down one last time.

I kept my smile blinding for the flashing cameras, focusing entirely on the light at the end of the tunnel. It's just a year, and then I get my freedom back. To the five hundred people sitting in the cathedral, this was the wedding of the century—a flawless, destined merger of two legendary American dynasties.

Nobody else knew that exactly three months ago, our relationship hadn’t started with a romantic glance across a crowded ballroom, or a moonlit dinner in Paris. That it had started with a catastrophic screech of tearing metal, a jagged silver scratch on a priceless vintage Maserati, and a banter match on the side of a crowded Boston highway.

“Welcome to the family, Mrs Kingsley,” he whispered. “Let the games begin.”