Page 52 of Marrying My Professor

Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation. "Of course. Temporary."

"And you have to promise me something," I add.

"What?"

"You have to promise that you'll tell me the truth. About everything. About the Veritas, about Brandon, about what you know. No more secrets. No more half-truths."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I promise."

I nod, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing, the way my hands are shaking, the way everything about this feels both inevitable and impossible.

"When?" I ask.

"Tomorrow," he says. "I'll make the arrangements. We'll do it quietly, just the two of us and whoever we need as witnesses."

"Tomorrow," I repeat numbly.

Tomorrow I'm getting married.

Tomorrow my life changes forever.

Tomorrow I become Elara Draven.

The thought should terrify me.

Instead, all I feel is a strange, desperate relief that I'm still alive to have a tomorrow at all.

15

ALEXANDER

The Belgrave County Courthouse is a brutalist monument to bureaucracy—all concrete and fluorescent lighting and the particular kind of institutional depression that seeps into your bones if you stand still too long. It smells like floor cleaner and disappointment, and the woman behind the desk processing our marriage license looks at us with the blank indifference of someone who's seen a thousand couples make the same mistake.

Elara stands beside me in a cream-colored dress she bought this morning, simple and elegant, hitting just above her knee. Her new bob is tucked behind her ears, and she's wearing minimal makeup—just enough to highlight those green eyes that have been haunting me for weeks. She looks beautiful and terrified and like she's about to bolt at any second.

I don't blame her.

Twenty-four hours ago, neither of us imagined we'd be here. Now we're standing in line behind a couple who can't be older than twenty, waiting our turn to sign paperwork that will legally bind us together. Forever, if I have anything to say about it. Temporarily, if Elara gets her way.

One problem at a time, Atticus.

"Next," the woman calls, and Elara flinches beside me.

I place my hand on the small of her back—a gesture that's become automatic in the last day, possessive and protective in equal measure—and guide her forward. The clerk barely looks up as she slides forms across the counter.

"ID and filing fee," she drones.

I hand over both, watching as she processes the information with mechanical efficiency. She doesn't ask if we're sure. Doesn't warn us about the statistics or the divorce rate or anything resembling human concern. She just stamps the forms, hands us each a pen, and points to the signature lines.

Elara's hand shakes slightly as she signs. Elara Rose Cross, written in neat, controlled script that belies the panic I can see in her eyes.

I sign next. Alexander Draven, because Atticus Drexel doesn't exist anymore. Hasn't existed for eight years. Won't ever exist again, now that I've bound myself to the Veritas indefinitely.

"Judge Reynolds will see you in courtroom three," the clerk says, already looking past us to the next couple. "Down the hall, second door on the right."

We walk in silence, our footsteps echoing on the linoleum. I've kept my hand on her back the entire time, and she hasn't pulled away. I'm taking that as a good sign.

Courtroom three is small, designed for quick civil proceedings rather than dramatic trials. There's a judge's bench, a few rows of seating, and a flag in the corner that's seen better days. Judge Reynolds is already there—a woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a chain and an expression that suggests she's as thrilled to be here as we are.