Chapter Text
Weddings were supposed to be magical. At least, that’s what Charlie Morningstar had always believed.
Ever since she was little, she’d dreamed of meeting her prince charming, of twirling in a ballroom under golden chandeliers, of kissing beneath a sky of fireworks. She wanted the big princess dress, the big wedding, and an even bigger happily ever after. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all she is Charlie Morningstar, only daughter of Lucifer and Lilith Morningstar, the Morningstars, billionaires and social royalty. Fairy tales should’ve come easy to her.
Yet, here she was.
Sitting on a cold courthouse bench, mascara streaking down her cheeks, her perfect white dress crumpled around her like a wilted rose. Her veil hung lopsided, and her bouquet lay discarded on the pavement beside her, petals bruised from how tightly she’d held it. Her body ached from what took place hours before. She sniffled, staring blankly at the reflection of her tearful face in the courthouse window. Her chest ached, her throat burned. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not today.
“Bad driver’s license photo?”
The voice came from behind her, low, amused, and smooth like the faint hum of a record player. Charlie blinked, startled, and turned.
A tall man stood there, dressed in an elegant dark coat that looked far too expensive for this side of town. He had an air of effortless confidence, his posture straight, his smile curious, his eyes the color of rich dark coffee gleaming beneath the streetlight. He was older, definitely, but not in a way that felt distant. He carried himself like someone who had seen the world, laughed at it, and decided to walk through it on his own terms.
“Oh,” Charlie stammered, her voice breaking slightly. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Cry outside a courthouse?” he interrupted, one corner of his mouth curling up. “I’ve seen stranger things.”
Before she could respond, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. It was white, monogrammed, faintly scented with something rich and warm, like aged books and ink. He handed it to her without hesitation. “Here,” he said, his tone gentler now.
“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting it with trembling fingers. The fabric felt too fine for her tear stained hands.
He sat down beside her, leaving a polite space between them. The bench creaked softly under his weight. “So,” he began casually, glancing toward the courthouse steps, “what’s a pretty young woman doing crying out here all alone and in a wedding dress, no less?”
Charlie gave a watery laugh, pressing the handkerchief to her nose. “It’s… a long story.”
“I’ve got time,” he said easily, crossing one leg over the other. “Unless it involves someone chasing you with legal documents.”
That startled another small laugh out of her. She sniffled, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “No. Nothing like that.”
He smiled faintly, and the air between them softened. For a moment, Charlie forgot how heavy her heart felt. There was something about him, an aura of calm that wrapped around her like a warm coat in the rain.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Miss…?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
“Actually…” she began, lowering her gaze to her lap. Her hands clenched around the handkerchief. “There is one thing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Her voice trembled, but she forced the words out anyway, heart pounding against her ribs. “Marry me.”
He blinked. Then, with an amused hum, “That’s… quite the request.”
“Please,” she whispered. “I’ll pay you if I have to. Just…please.”
He looked at her for a long moment, eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, that crooked smile returned. “You don’t even know my name,” he said softly, leaning just a little closer. “And you’re already asking me to marry you. Isn’t that a bit fast, sweetheart?”
She swallowed hard. “Charlie,” she blurted. “My name’s Charlotte. But please, call me Charlie.”
He chuckled lowly, the sound sending a strange, fluttery warmth to her chest. “Alastor,” he said, finally offering his name.
Their eyes met, hers bright and desperate, his calm and unreadable and for one suspended, foolishly romantic heartbeat, the world felt still.
It wasn’t how fairy tales began, but maybe… this was how hers would.
She was exhausted.
Her feet ached like they were plotting revenge, and the hem of her dress was slightly wrinkled from an entire day of smiling, standing, and pretending her heels weren’t the instruments of torture they truly were.
The moment Charlie stepped through the front door, she let out a dramatic sigh and pressed her back against it, her body sagging like a deflated balloon. The house welcomed her instantly, warm and dimly lit, smelling faintly of roasted herbs and something buttery. Soft jazz played somewhere in the background, the kind of smooth, old record Alastor loved to put on in the evenings.
“I’m hoooome…” she called, her voice lilting tiredly as she bent to unbuckle her heels. They clattered to the floor, freeing her sore feet with a sigh of pure relief.
She ran a hand through her long blonde hair, loosening it from the messy bun she’d thrown together that morning. Strands fell around her face as she pushed off the door and padded barefoot through the hallway, the wooden floor cool beneath her toes.
The farther she went, the stronger the smell became, savory, rich, and comforting. Her nose twitched. “Is that… garlic butter?”
When she turned the corner into the kitchen, her heart did a little flip.
Alastor was standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a dish towel slung casually over one shoulder. The warm light from the hanging lamp above painted gold along the edges of his dark brown reddish hair and the sharp line of his jaw. He was humming along softly to the record, stirring something in a pan that sizzled happily in response.
He looked perfectly at ease, confident, graceful, and utterly him.
Charlie leaned against the doorway, watching him for a second with a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. There was something so tender about the scene, so simple and ordinary, yet it filled her chest with a quiet, glowing warmth.
“You know,” she said, her voice teasing, “if you keep cooking like that, I’m going to start thinking I married you for your culinary skills.”
Alastor glanced over his shoulder, his smile curving sly and amused. “Ah, my dear wife returns. I was beginning to think the outside world had claimed you.”
She laughed softly, padding into the kitchen. “Almost. I barely survived the heels.”
He chuckled, setting the wooden spoon down and turning to face her. “A tragedy,” he said lightly, reaching out to take her hand. “Come here, you poor thing.”
His hand was warm when their fingers intertwined. He tugged her gently closer until she was standing right in front of him, the heat from the stove mingling with the faint scent of his cologne, that familiar blend of smoke and spice and something sweet that was uniquely Alastor.
She looked up at him with tired but adoring eyes. “You’re cooking again.”
“Of course. A gentleman can’t let his lady starve,” he replied with mock seriousness.
“Mm, I think you just like showing off,” she teased.
He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Perhaps. But only because you make such a delightful audience.”
Charlie laughed again and leaned against the counter beside him. “What are we having?”
“Something simple,” he said, giving the pan a careful toss. “Garlic butter shrimp with lemon pasta.”
Her stomach growled loudly in response, and she covered it with a flustered laugh. “Okay, you win. I definitely married you for your cooking.”
He smirked, setting the pan down and reaching out to gently tap the tip of her nose with the back of his finger. “Then I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, amused. With a small nod toward the counter, he added, “Would you pour the wine, my dear?”
She hummed in response, a light little sound that made him smile. Grabbing the bottle of red from where it rested, she worked the cork free and poured generously into both glasses. The ruby liquid caught the light, glimmering like velvet as the faint hiss of the record filled the air.
They moved together in quiet synchronicity, him plating the food, her setting the table. Every so often she leaned over his shoulder, stealing a shrimp when she thought he wasn’t watching. He always was, of course, but he only chuckled softly to himself, pretending not to notice.
By the time they sat down, the dining room was filled with the warmth of jazz, dinner, and something tender that hung between them like a familiar melody.
Charlie tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled across the table, her face glowing faintly in the lamplight. “You know, today was insane,” she started, her voice bubbling with energy even as exhaustion lingered beneath it.
“Oh?” Alastor arched an eyebrow, swirling the wine in his glass. “The glamorous life of a hotel owner, I presume?”
She huffed a small laugh. “Glamorous? Try chaotic.” Her hands moved as she spoke, animated and bright. “The new lounge singer got stage fright right before her debut, the kitchen’s new oven broke again and I had to fill in at the front desk because the receptionist’s cat went into labor!”
He laughed quietly, the sound low and warm. “A most peculiar chain of events.”
Charlie leaned forward, grinning despite herself. “It was a mess, Al! But the guests were happy, the staff pulled through, and the singer ended up performing beautifully after I gave her a little pep talk. She has the sweetest voice.”
“I’ve no doubt,” he replied smoothly, his tone indulgent. “You always have a way of coaxing the best out of people.”
Her cheeks flushed a little at that, and she tried to hide it behind her wine glass. “You’re just saying that because you’re my husband.”
“I’m saying that,” he countered gently, leaning his chin on his hand, “because it’s true, my darling starlet.”
The pet name hit her like a spark. Her eyes widened slightly before she ducked her head with a shy laugh, stirring her pasta just to have something to do with her hands. “You always know what to say to make me blush…”
“Only because it’s so very easy to do,” he said, smiling against the rim of his glass.
Charlie’s flustered laughter filled the space between them. “You’re terrible,” she murmured, her lips curving despite herself.
“Terrible?” he repeated with mock offense. “I prefer charming, thank you.”
“You mean smug.”
“Perhaps a bit of both,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief.
She laughed again, soft and melodic, then sighed contentedly as she forked up another bite of pasta. “You know… for all the chaos today, coming home to this, ” she gestured around the kitchen, “to you makes everything worth it.”
He watched her quietly, expression softening. For all his sharp wit and composed exterior, there was a certain gentleness in the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth focusing on. “I’m glad,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now. “You deserve a little peace at the end of your whirlwind days, sweetheart.”
Her heart fluttered at the word, sweetheart, warm and familiar, like honey melting into tea. She smiled down at her plate, trying to hide it, but he saw the faint curve of her lips and the way her ears went pink.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
“I’m admiring,” he corrected easily. “Entirely different thing.”
Charlie’s laugh came out half giddy, half embarrassed. “You’re incorrigible."
“And yet,” he said with a hint of a smirk, “you married me.”
“Mm. Don’t remind me,” she teased, but her eyes were glowing, soft, fond, and full of quiet love.
He chuckled, reaching across the table to brush his fingers lightly over hers. The touch was simple but familiar.
After washing the last of the dishes, Charlie retreated upstairs to shower the long day away. The water was hot, filling the bathroom with steam and lavender scented mist, and for a few fleeting minutes, she felt herself unravel, her exhaustion melting into the quiet hum of the night.
By the time she stepped out, her skin was flushed and her eyelids heavy. She slipped into a soft silk nightgown, the pale fabric whispering against her skin as she brushed out her damp hair. A small, tired smile curved her lips as she caught her reflection in the mirror.
Padding downstairs, she passed through the still house, her bare feet silent on the polished floors. The jazz record had long since ended, replaced by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the clock.
She picked up the novel resting on the armchair, a half-finished romance she’d been reading for weeks and curled up on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. She’d just found her place on the page when she heard the soft creak of footsteps behind her.
Alastor appeared in the doorway, already dressed in his dark coat and neatly pressed clothes from earlier. His tie was slightly loosened, and he was adjusting his cuffs as if preparing to head out.
Charlie blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “Are you going somewhere?”
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back a stray strand. “I have essays to grade,” he replied smoothly. “It seems I left them in my office.”
“Oh…” Her voice was quiet, uncertain. The faint disappointment that fluttered in her chest caught her off guard, so she forced a small, polite smile instead. “Right.”
He crossed the room with that calm, composed grace of his, the faint scent of his cologne trailing behind him, warm, familiar, faintly spiced. His hand rested briefly on the back of the couch as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t wait up,” he said lightly.
She tilted her head to look up at him, her smile careful and tight. “Please drive safely.”
He gave her that same charming smile that had fooled half the city into thinking their marriage was a love story. “Goodnight, my little doe.”
Then he was gone.
The sound of the front door closing echoed softly through the empty house. She listened to the muffled thud of his footsteps on the porch, the creak of the car door, the low rumble of the engine as it came to life and finally, the sound of it fading down the street until there was only silence.
Charlie sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. Her fingers tightened around her book, though she couldn’t bring herself to read another word.
It was always like this, warm for a moment, then gone.
They were married, yes. But it was marriage in name only. A neat arrangement sealed with signatures, rings, and polite smiles. No love letters, no late night whispers, and definitely no shared bed. Their rooms were on opposite ends of the house, his always perfectly neat and shadowed, hers cluttered with half-finished books, flower vases, and the occasional forgotten coffee cup.
It was convenient and practical. Exactly what they’d both wanted. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
She had married Alastor because she needed to escape from expectations, from her parents, from an arranged marriage that had felt like a gilded cage closing around her. And he… well, she didn’t know why he had agreed. He had smiled when she asked, and he had simply said yes.
He never explained. She never asked.
They existed in quiet parallel, crossing paths in kitchens and doorways, smiling at each other across dinner tables, acting out affection when the world was watching. They took couple photos, attended events hand in hand, even went on dates for show. He always opened her doors, pulled out her chair, and offered his arm. He is the perfect gentleman.
But they had never kissed. Not truly.
Sometimes, late at night, she’d lie awake in her bed and think about what that might feel like, not the polite brush of lips for the cameras, but something real. Something that would make her heart stutter and her stomach flip the way it did in all those silly romance novels.
It wasn’t love between them, but sometimes, when he smiled at her a certain way or said her name with that low, velvety tone, it almost felt like it could be and that was the most dangerous thought of all.
Their story, the one they told others, was a fairytale lie. They’d met at a bookstore, she’d spilled coffee on him, they’d spent the day talking and laughing and somehow, in two months, fallen head over heels in love. It was cute and oh so romantic. People adored it, ate up the tooth rotting lie out of their hands.
She still remembered the first time he’d told the story at a dinner party, his voice smooth and confident, his smile bright and teasing as he called her “my clumsy little ray of sunshine.” Everyone had laughed, cooed, and swooned and Charlie, sitting beside him with her cheeks burning and her heart hammering, had smiled too. Because at that moment, pretending almost felt real.
But as she sat now in the quiet, her book forgotten on her lap and the house too big around her, Charlie couldn’t help wondering if Alastor ever felt the same loneliness she did.
The house had gone still, leaving only the faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound left, the kind of silence that seemed to press against her ears. Charlie sat curled up on the couch, the lamp casting a soft golden circle over the coffee table.
Her gaze had drifted from her book to the framed photo that sat beside it.
It was one of the official portraits, the ones they’d taken soon after their wedding. A sepia-toned photograph, styled after the old-fashioned portraits Alastor seemed to adore.
He stood behind her, tall and composed, one hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. She sat in front of him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her smile demure and practiced. It should have looked staged but somehow, it didn’t. There was a quiet grace to it, a sense of belonging that even she couldn’t deny.
Her fingers brushed lightly over the glass frame.
Alastor looked impossibly handsome in the photo. The kind of man who seemed carved from another era entirely. His dark brown hair was neatly styled, every strand in its place; his skin was sun warmed and smooth, making the pale gleam of his smile all the more striking. His face, with its sharp, angular lines and high cheekbones, carried an old world elegance. Alastor is handsome in a way that feels timeless and dignified.
He always dressed the part too, crisp shirts, pressed vests, tailored trousers, and polished shoes that gleamed beneath the light. A gentleman straight from a forgotten decade, with a voice to match, low and rich, carrying that soft, almost musical static, like the smooth hum of a radio host from the Roaring Twenties.
He could speak and make people listen, he could smile and make them trust him. His jokes were clever, his wit silver tipped, and his mind razor sharp. He could charm anyone, from the coldest critic to the shyest student.
And yet, he had chosen her or… agreed to her.
Charlie tilted her head slightly, her thumb tracing the faint outline of his shoulder in the photo.
It was strange…how little she actually knew about him. For all the months they had lived together, she still didn’t know why he had accepted her proposal that day outside the courthouse. He could have said no. He should have said no. A man like Alastor, one so handsome, brilliant, and respected didn’t need to marry someone like her out of convenience.
He was thirty-six. Mature, self assured, perfectly at ease with himself and she was twenty two, twenty three in October still figuring out who she was, still trying to stand on her own.
Sometimes she wondered what he thought when he looked at her. Did he see a foolish girl who had stumbled into his life? A charity case? Or… something more?
She bit her lip, smiling faintly despite herself.
When he called her “my little doe,” her heart always skipped in that embarrassing, fluttery way. He said it with such smooth affection that it almost sounded real. Almost.
Maybe that was why it hurt a little, because part of her wanted it to be.
She sighed softly, setting the frame back down. The lamplight caught on the glass, reflecting both their faces together, and for a fleeting moment, she could almost imagine it, that they were truly in love, that she’d married the man of her dreams instead of a stranger who happened to be in the right place at the right time.
Her eyes grew heavy, her mind drifting somewhere between dream and waking thought.
He was the epitome of old Southern charm, refined, patient, and endlessly composed. She admired that about him, the way he could walk into any room and command it without ever raising his voice. The way his laughter, that soft, crackling sound could warm the space around him like the first notes of a favorite song.
Charlie wondered, not for the first time, why a man like him had never married before. Never even dated, as far as she knew. It seemed impossible that someone so charismatic, so magnetic, could be untouched by romance.
Maybe he’d loved once, long ago, and it hadn’t ended well. Maybe he didn’t believe in love at all. Or maybe, she thought sleepily, her head resting against the back of the couch…maybe he was just waiting for the right person to come along.
Her lips curved faintly into a drowsy smile at that thought.
The clock ticked softly, the night settled deeper around her and as her eyelids fluttered shut, the image of Alastor, tall, handsome, smiling that easy, old-fashioned smile lingered in her mind.
She fell asleep with the photo still in her hand, the man she barely knew and almost loved watching her from behind the glass.