Chapter 1: The Marriage License

The day I brought Caleb Jennings home, I knew instantly—he was the leading man type. Golden boy, heartbreakingly handsome. Too bad he’d lost everything. Now he was stuck here in my quiet Portland suburb, in a house that felt more like a gilded cage than a refuge. He wouldn’t leave the house, wouldn’t even step past the second doorway. At night, he’d curl up on the floor, hugging his knees and quietly crying. It was enough to break anyone’s heart.

Sometimes, I’d watch him from the kitchen window, sunlight streaming in and making the dust motes swirl around him. He’d sit so still, arms wrapped around his knees, he almost looked like he could disappear if I blinked. My safe little house suddenly felt like a prison, for both of us. Seeing him there—so beautiful, so lost—made my chest ache.

Trying to lighten the mood, I grabbed our marriage license and waved it at him. Caleb just stared, numb and silent. I scratched my nose, feeling awkward.

The license looked ridiculous—blue embossed seal and all, like a prop from a cheap play. I tried to smile, holding it out. “See? We’re really married.” He didn’t react. The air felt thick and syrupy, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe if I just acted normal, he would too.

Even though the system had issued the marriage license, from Caleb’s point of view, I was the manipulative one—the girl who took advantage of him while he was drunk and tricked him into this mess. He had every reason to hate me.

Guilt pressed down on my chest like a stone. I wished I could undo it, or at least explain how everything got so twisted. But what could I possibly say to make any of this right?

As I stood there, waving the license, a wave of regret washed over me. This wasn’t how I’d ever pictured marriage—no joy, no celebration, just a silent, broken man and a piece of paper that felt like a chain. I remembered being a kid, daydreaming about a wedding dress and laughter, about a partner who’d look at me with love. Now, all I had was this awkward silence and a longing for something I couldn’t even name.