Chapter 4: The Wedding That Broke the Bed

When the lake ice could finally hold a car, Marcus and I picked an "auspicious" wedding day—chosen by joint chiefs, not romance.

Northern State traditions required a crash course: bread-breaking, wine rituals, wolf dances (costume, not real), and seventeen kinds of curtsies. It was like boot camp, but for brides—PowerPoints at dawn, etiquette drills in the hallway, and a lady with a headset barking, “Posture! Smile! Don’t step on the train!”

I fought, I protested, I even threw my phone. The wedding-industrial complex steamrolled me anyway.

From now on, I’d be "that Southern girl who married North." I touched my pearl-and-diamond tiara, forty pounds of satin misery. Duty, honor, and a forced smile—Dad’s lessons echoed in my head.

If only I’d taken one last look at Mom’s magnolia tree before leaving. Here, it was black coffee and frostbite, not sweet tea and magnolias.

"Pig-head lady, you surviving?" Marcus whispered during the vows, between “to have and to hold.”

I forced a smile: "Thanks for asking, porcupine lord—your beds are killing my back."

The crowd cheered. My fate was sealed.

Inside the bridal suite, I inhaled a fistful of wedding cookies—emotional eating was my Olympic sport. After all the ceremonies, I was starving and homicidal.

Marcus poured tea. "Just don’t choke again."

His cold words stung more than the pastries. I smiled anyway.

I suggested a "rain check" on consummation. "I’m afraid you’ll die on top of me."

He smirked. "Who says you’ll survive me?"

We agreed: no touching, just sleep. Like the world’s most expensive sleepover.

Turning over, my foot kicked… somewhere unspeakable. He groaned—pain, or something else?

Then—CRACK! The ancient oak bed collapsed. We hit the floor together, bruised and mortified.

By morning, the staff gossiped that the newlyweds had "broken the bed with passion." The advisor publicly told Marcus to abstain. Northern State’s man-on-horseback reputation was at stake.

I lay in bed, howling with laughter. Emma brought ointments. Her hands soothed my bruised back—until a big, rough palm replaced hers. Marcus. "Don’t move. Doctor’s orders."

"There’s no part of your body I haven’t touched."

I hurled a priceless porcelain pillow at him. "Are you even human?!"

Thirteen years ago, I was eleven and already corrupting future governors. If this was what “marital bliss” looked like, I couldn’t wait for the honeymoon disaster.