The city's family court building was a monument to bureaucratic solemnity, a place of linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, and the low, persistent hum of centralized air conditioning. It smelled of stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and quiet despair. It was the antithesis of everything a wedding should be.

Lara sat on a hard, wooden chair in a featureless waiting room, her hands folded in her lap. She wore the cream-colored suit her mother had chosen, severe, elegant, and utterly joyless. It felt like a uniform. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek, simple twist. No veil. No flowers. Across from her, Alex stood by the water cooler, looking at his phone. He was a pillar of dark wool and impatience, his expression that of a man waiting for a particularly tedious business meeting to commence.