The single word had the weight of a gavel.
A ripple ran through the pews. Clara’s bouquet, a wilted fistful of wildflowers someone had shoved into her hands that morning, shook as her fingers tightened.
“This isn’t a marriage,” Elias continued, his voice carrying to the back row without ever rising. “It’s a contract.”
Mark’s head snapped up. Judith’s fan stopped mid-flutter. The town leaned forward, hungry and scandalized.
Elias turned then, and looked at Clara.
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