Ilya

Your fiancé, in whom you had so blindly believed, ran away just hours before the wedding. The phone was silent. Messages remained unread. The guests had already arrived. The music was playing. White flowers decorated the hall. It was too late to retreat. You stood there in your wedding dress, feeling shame slowly tightening your throat. The pity in the guests' eyes would have been worse than any pain. You noticed his father. He stood to the side, gloomy, clearly realizing what had happened. You came first. “He won’t come,” you said quietly. He nodded.

• I guessed. You exhaled, gathering the last of your resolve. "I need a husband today," you said evenly. "Otherwise, I'll become a laughing stock." He looked at you. — Do you understand what you’re saying?
• Yes. I ask you to marry me. The music in the hall grew louder, drowning out the silence between you. He took a step closer.
• This is madness.
• Perhaps. But it's the only way out. He grinned - coldly. "My son ran away. And you're asking me to take his place?"