Page 107 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
Right.
So that was it.
I had not married a man.
I had signed into a role.
A glorified nanny wrapped in a wedding dress.
My fingers tightened slightly in the folds of my dress as I stood alone in the echoing space.
The marble beneath my feet was cold even through my heels.
I turned slowly in the darkness that was my constant companion.
Footsteps approached again.
Not Rafael’s.
Different rhythm. Softer. Measured, but warmer in cadence.
I turned slightly toward the sound.
“Loretta.”
Ramiro’s voice reached me from a short distance away.
“Congratulations on your marriage. I wish you peace, happiness, and every blessing in the years ahead.”
There was sincerity in it.
I let out a small breath that might have been a laugh if I had allowed it to fully form.
Peace. Happiness. Blessings.
The words felt strangely out of place here—inside a marriage built on grief, obligation, and the memory of another woman.
Still, I appreciated the attempt.
“Thank you, Ramiro,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
He stepped closer, stopping at a respectful distance.
I could tell exactly how far he stood from me by the change in sound around his voice—controlled proximity, careful not to overwhelm.
“I’ll be helping you get familiar with the house,” Ramiro said gently. “Until then, I’ll walk you through a basic tour of the main floor.”
A brief pause.
“But first, follow my steps. I’ll show you to your room.”
His tone stayed steady and professional. Not commanding, but certain enough that it didn’t need to be.
Then he started walking.
I heard him before I fully committed to following him—the soft, measured rhythm of his shoes striking marble, each step precise enough to become a guide in itself.
The sound echoed differently in this part of the house, slightly muted, suggesting we had moved deeper into interior corridors rather than the open foyer.
