When we walked out of that building, Ethan turned to me with a grin. “Well, looks like we’re in this together now.” Then, reality hit. I’d just married a stranger.
The next few days felt like a whirlwind. Ethan and I settled into a routine that was both strange and strangely comforting. In his world, life was simple, unhurried, and he showed me things I’d never paid attention to, like how to make breakfast without help, or how to budget for groceries.
When my father found out I’d married, he was livid. He called me every hour, his messages curt, his tone icy. After days of ignoring him, I finally answered the phone.
“What is going on, Anna?” he demanded. “You married someone—a stranger! A janitor! Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s my life, Dad,” I replied, feeling my voice shake.
“You have responsibilities, Anna. Do you think the world is going to respect this… this nonsense? I’ll come by tomorrow. I want to meet this husband of yours.”
“Fine, Dad,” I said, feeling a chill at the thought. But I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever.
The next evening, my father arrived at our small apartment. Dressed in his usual designer suit, he surveyed the space with a look of disgust, glancing at the mismatched furniture and modest decor like it was offensive.
“Anna, are you really staying here?” he asked, turning to me with disappointment. “This is our home,” I replied, folding my arms. I could feel Ethan’s presence behind me, calm and steady.
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