The hospital room was too bright, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the white walls and sterile equipment. Isabelle Carter stood just inside the doorway, her hands trembling as she clutched a clipboard with papers she couldn’t bear to look at. She wore a wedding dress, an exquisite creation of white lace with delicate sleeves and a fitted bodice, the kind of gown she’d once dreamed of wearing on her own wedding day.
But this wasn’t her wedding. This was a nightmare. In the hospital bed lay Marcus Donovan, unconscious, his dark hair swept back from a face that would have been handsome if it weren’t so still. He wore a tuxedo, or at least the top half of one, the crisp white shirt and black bow tie, a cruel mockery of celebration. A rose bineer was pinned to his lapel.
Monitors beeped steadily beside him, tracking a life that continued, even though the man himself was lost somewhere unreachable. Sign the papers. Isabelle. Her father’s voice came from behind her, hard and unforgiving. This is the only way. Isabelle turned to face him, tears streaming down her face. Dad, please.
This is insane. I can’t marry a man in a coma. A man I’ve never even met. This is This is saving our family, her mother interrupted, stepping forward in her expensive dress. makeup perfect. As if this were a real wedding instead of whatever horrific charade it actually was. Your sister ran away. She left Marcus at the altar and his family is furious.
The business deal between our companies is worth hundreds of millions. If we don’t provide a bride, the Donovans will destroy us. Destroy everything your father has built. Then let them. Isabelle’s voice cracked. This is wrong. You’re asking me to marry a stranger who can’t even consent. How is this legal? How is this ethical? The Donovan family’s lawyers assured us it’s legal with proper power of attorney, which Marcus’ father holds,” her father said coldly.
“And ethics don’t pay bills, Isabelle. Your sister’s selfishness has put us in this position. You’re 24 years old and have contributed nothing to this family. The least you can do is this.” Isabelle looked at her older sister’s fiance. this man she’d never met until an hour ago when she’d been rushed to the hospital and stuffed into her sister Vivien’s wedding dress.
Vivien, who’d been engaged to Marcus Donovan for 6 months. Viven, who’d seemed happy with the arrangement, with the wealthy, handsome tech entrepreneur she’d been set to marry until yesterday when she disappeared, leaving only a note saying she couldn’t go through with it and she was sorry.
The Donovan family had been enraged. The wedding was supposed to happen today, a massive affair with 300 guests and millions in business deals hinging on the union of the two families. When Viven vanished, Isabelle’s parents had panicked. And then, in a twist of terrible irony, Marcus himself had been in a car accident on his way to try to find Viven.
He’d been in a coma for 18 hours now. The Donovans, led by Mark, that’s together. Us’s father, Richard, had made a horrifying proposal. The wedding would still happen. Marcus’ younger sister could marry into the Carter family, or Isabelle could take Viven’s place. The business deal would be preserved. Everything would proceed as planned, except the groom couldn’t say, “I do.
” “How can his father do this to him?” Isabelle whispered, looking at Marcus. “How can Mr. Donovan force his son into a marriage while he’s unconscious?” “Richard Donovan is a businessman first,” her father said. and Marcus is his only son. This merger matters. Now sign the papers. A nurse stood by the bed, her face carefully neutral, but her eyes sympathetic.
A doctor waited nearby with an efficient who looked deeply uncomfortable. This was happening whether Isabelle wanted it or not. If I refuse? Isabelle asked, already knowing the answer. Then you’re no longer part of this family, her mother said coldly. Your father and I will be ruined and it will be your fault. Just like your sister’s selfishness is her fault.

At least have more character than Viven. Isabelle felt like she couldn’t breathe. The lace of the dress felt like it was choking her. She looked at Marcus again at this stranger whose life had been upended by her sister’s decision and his father’s ruthless business sense. She walked slowly to the bed and looked down at him.
He was young, maybe early 30s. There was a cut healing on his forehead from the accident and bruises purpling along his jaw. The doctors had said the coma was medically induced to reduce brain swelling, that his prognosis was good, that he’d likely wake up in a few days or weeks, and when he did, he’d wake up married to a woman he’d never met, a woman who’d taken his choice away from him.
“I’m so sorry,” Isabelle whispered to him. I’m so so sorry. She picked up the pen with shaking hands. Behind her, her parents relaxed visibly. The officient cleared his throat and began the strangest ceremony Isabelle had ever witnessed. She barely heard the words. Something about sickness and health. For better or worse, the nurse gently placed Marcus’ hand in Isabelle’s for the ring exchange.
His hand was warm, alive, and she felt like a monster. When it was done, when the papers were signed and witnessed, Isabelle was Mrs. Marcus Donovan, married to a man in a coma, bound legally to a stranger who had no idea she existed. The next 3 weeks were surreal. Isabelle moved into the Donovan family’s estate into Marcus’ wing of the massive house.
She spent her days in the hospital sitting beside her unconscious husband, reading to him, talking to him, apologizing over and over for the situation they were both trapped in. She learned about Marcus through his things, through the nurses and doctors who knew him, through his friends who visited. He was a tech entrepreneur who developed revolutionary software for medical diagnostics.
He was wealthy but not pretentious, charitable, kind to his staff. He loved hiking and photography. His walls were covered with stunning landscape photos he’d taken himself. He was by all accounts a genuinely good man, which made Isabelle feel even worse. “Why did you agree to marry my sister?” Isabelle asked his unconscious form one afternoon.
“Was it just for business, or did you actually care about her?” Marcus’s best friend, Jackson, had been in the room when she asked. He’d been visiting regularly, and he and Isabelle had developed a tentative friendship born of shared concern for Marcus. “He agreed because his father pressured him,” Jackson said quietly. Richard wanted the business merger.
“Your sister was beautiful and seemed nice enough. Marcus wasn’t in love with her, but he thought maybe they could build something. He’s practical like that. Believes in making the best of things.” and now he’s stuck with me instead,” Isabelle said bitterly. “I’m sure that’s not what he signed up for.” “You’ve been here every day,” Jackson observed.
“Reading to him, talking to him, learning about him. That’s more than your sister ever did in 6 months of engagement.” Isabelle didn’t know what to say to that. She just held Marcus’s hand and wished desperately that she could undo this entire situation. On a Tuesday morning, 23 days after the accident, Isabelle was reading to Marcus from one of his favorite books, a memoir about a photographer’s journey through South America, when his hand twitched in hers. She stopped reading immediately.
Marcus. His eyes moved beneath his closed lids. Then slowly they opened. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, clearly disoriented. Then his gaze found her. Who are you? His voice was horsearo, rough from disuse. Isabelle felt her heartbreak. My name is Isabelle. I’m There’s a lot to explain. Let me get the doctor first. Okay.
The next hours were chaos. Doctors examined Marcus, ran tests, confirmed that while he’d been unconscious longer than ideal, there appeared to be no major brain damage. His father, Richard, arrived, all business and relief mixed together. Friends gathered, overjoyed. Through it all, Marcus kept looking at Isabelle with confusion.
Finally, when they were alone, he asked, “Why do they keep calling you my wife? Where’s Vivien?” Isabelle sat down in the chair beside his bed, her hands clasped tightly together. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I don’t know how to explain it in a way that makes any of it okay.” Try. So, she did. She told him everything about Viven running away, about the business deal, about her family’s desperation, about his father’s decision to proceed with the wedding even though Marcus was in a coma, about how she’d been forced to take her
sister’s place, to sign papers while he lay unconscious, unable to consent or refuse. “I’m so sorry,” Isabelle finished, tears streaming down her face. “I know this is a violation. I know you never would have agreed to this. I felt sick about it every single day. I’m so so sorry. Marcus was silent for a long time.
His face was difficult to read. My father did this. He married me off while I was in a coma. Yes, I’m sorry. And you agreed to it. To marry a stranger in a coma. My family threatened to disown me, to blame me for their ruin. I was weak and I gave in. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not an excuse.

I know I took away your choice and there’s no excuse for that. Marcus closed his eyes. Everyone used me. Everyone used both of us. Yes, I could have the marriage enulled. It’s clearly invalid given the circumstances. I know. I would support that completely. I’ll sign whatever you need. I’ll testify that I was coerced, that you couldn’t consent. Whatever helps.
Marcus opened his eyes and looked at her. You’ve been here, haven’t you? Every day? Yes. Jackson told me before you came back in, he said, “You’ve been here every day since it happened, reading to me, talking to me, learning about me. I felt like I owed you that much to at least know the person whose life I’d helped ruin.
” My father said the business deal is done. The merger happened, so even if we enol the marriage, that won’t change. No, I guess not. Marcus was quiet again, studying her face. You’re not what I expected. What did you expect? Someone like your sister. Beautiful but cold. Calculated. But you’re not like that, are you? You’re here apologizing for something that wasn’t really your fault.
Taking blame for your family’s manipulation and my father’s ruthlessness. It was my fault. I signed the papers. I could have refused and lost everything. Your family? Your support system? That’s not really a choice, is it? Marcus shifted in the bed, wincing at the movement. I’m not saying what happened is okay. It’s not.
But I think we’re both victims here. We were both used by people who were supposed to care about us. Isabelle wiped her tears. What do you want to do? I want to think. I want to process this nightmare. I want to yell at my father probably. I want to understand how any of this is legal. He paused.
And I want to get to know you. If we’re married, even if it’s temporary, I should at least know who you are.” Over the next weeks, as Marcus recovered, he and Isabelle talked, really talked. She told him about her life, about her dreams of being a teacher, about her love of literature and art, about her complicated relationship with her family, about always being in Vivian’s shadow, about feeling guilty for resenting her sister’s beauty and confidence while simultaneously missing her consent.
desperately. Marcus told her about growing up with a father who saw him primarily as an air and business asset, about building his company because he genuinely wanted to help people, to make healthc care better and more accessible, about his love of photography and travel, about the places he wanted to see, about the loneliness of having wealth but wondering if people liked him or his money.
They discovered they both loved old movies, terrible puns, and spicy food. They discovered they could make each other laugh. They discovered that under the horrific circumstances of their meeting, they actually liked each other. “You know what the worst part is?” Marcus said one evening as they sat in the garden at his family’s estate.
He’d been released from the hospital a week earlier. “I think I like you better than I ever liked your sister.” Which feels wrong to say, but it’s true. Viven is hard to like, Isabelle admitted. I love her because she’s my sister, but I don’t really like her most of the time. She’s selfish and vain and she hurt you badly. I’m sorry about that.
She did me a favor, Marcus said slowly. If she hadn’t run, I’d be married to someone who didn’t love me, who was using me. Instead, I’m married to someone who actually talks to me, who reads my favorite books, who makes me laugh, who’s been learning about my life and trying to understand me. I’m still the woman who married you without your not romantic Marcus.
That’s terrible. It is terrible. This whole situation is terrible. But you’re not terrible, Isabelle. You’re actually kind of wonderful. 6 months later, Marcus and Isabelle sat across from a lawyer. They’d called the meeting to discuss anulment. They’d agreed after Marcus woke up to give it 6 months to get to know each other, to heal, to decide what they wanted.
The lawyer looked between them. “So, you want to proceed with the anulment?” Marcus and Isabelle looked at each other. In the past 6 months, they’d fallen in love. Real love, not the arranged kind. They’d learned each other’s quirks and habits. They’d supported each other through family drama, through Marcus’ recovery, through Isabelle’s decision to cut contact with her manipulative parents.
Actually, Marcus said, taking Isabelle’s hand. We’d like to plan a real wedding. One where we’re both conscious and consenting. One where we’re choosing each other. The lawyer looked confused. But you’re already married. Legally, yes. But we want to do it right. We want our families and friends there knowing that we’re choosing this, choosing each other. Isabelle squeezed Marcus’ hand.
We want to take vows that we’re both awake for. That actually means something. They were married again eight months later. A small ceremony with people who actually cared about them. Jackson was Marcus’ best man. Isabelle’s childhood friend, Maria, was her maid of honor. Neither of their fathers attended.
Richard Donovan had been furious when Marcus had cut him out of the company leadership, redistributing power and refusing to let his father use him again. Isabelle’s father had been equally angry when she’d refused to be his pawn anymore. But standing at the altar, looking at Marcus as he said I do, while fully conscious and choosing her freely, Isabelle felt like they’d won something precious from the ashes of that terrible day.
“I’m glad you woke up,” she whispered after they kissed. “I’m glad you were there when I did,” Marcus whispered back. Years later, they would tell their children a carefully edited version of how they met. About how sometimes the worst circumstances can lead to the best outcomes.
About how love can grow even from forced beginnings as long as both people choose to nurture it. But alone, in quiet moments, they’d remember the truth. The hospital room, the wedding dress, the unconscious groom, the bride who’d been forced to choose between her family and her conscience. Do you ever regret it? Isabelle asked Marcus one night, curled up beside him.
That you didn’t enol the marriage when you had the chance. Never, Marcus said firmly. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Even if the way we got here was insane. I thought I was being forced to sacrifice my life that day, Isabelle said quietly. Turns out I was finding it instead. They’d both been victims of their family’s manipulation.
both been used as pawns in business dealings. Both been denied choice in the most fundamental decision of their lives. But they’d chosen each other in the end. And that choice made freely with full hearts and open eyes had made all the difference. Sometimes the worst beginnings lead to the best endings. Sometimes being forced into something impossible is exactly how you find the possible.
Sometimes the person you’re compelled to marry becomes the person you choose every time. Marcus and Isabelle had learned that truth the hard way. In a hospital room with a pen signing papers, with a groom who couldn’t say yes or no. But they’d proven something else, too. That consent matters, that choice matters, that real love only counts when both people are awake and aware and choosing each other freely.
The first ceremony had been a violation. The second had been a vow. And it was the second one that mattered. The second one that counted, the second one that made them not just legally married, but truly, finally, rightfully.