Hannah had spent months picturing her wedding day down to the smallest detail. She imagined the swell of music, the flowers lining the aisle, her mother’s soft cry in the front row, her sister squeezing her hand before she walked in, and Luke waiting for her with that boyish grin he’d worn since the day they met. It was supposed to be the beginning of everything she’d hoped for.
Luke had insisted on planning most of the ceremony himself — something he called a “family tradition.” He told her she would understand it when the time came. At first, it sounded sweet, like one more thing that made him different from every man she’d ever dated. Luke was steady, affectionate, thoughtful — or so she believed. Whenever she asked for details, he’d smile and say, “Trust me. My family has done it this way for generations. You’ll love it.”
But as the wedding day approached, that explanation started to feel thin. A tradition she couldn’t be told about? A ceremony she wasn’t allowed to have any say in? Her friends joked that Luke was trying to surprise her, but her mother frowned every time Luke brushed off their questions. Still, Hannah told herself she was overthinking. Love requires trust, she reminded herself. And she trusted him.
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