At twenty-one, Annabelle Linton was breathtakingly beautiful in her wedding dress.
The priest asked, "Bride, Annabelle Linton, do you take Mr. Leona Grant to be your husband, to have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, and cherish him, forsaking all others?"
Annabelle Linton smiled, full of hope. "I do."
The priest then asked, "Groom, Mr. Leona Grant, do you take..."
"Where's the ring?" he interrupted the priest, his face devoid of expression.
An awkward silence fell over the hall. The color drained from Annabelle Linton's face, then flushed red.
Then, under everyone's gaze, he roughly grabbed her hand, shoved the ring on her finger, and turned to walk away.
He left Annabelle Linton standing there in humiliation, her face burning with shame.
At twenty-two, Annabelle Linton had cooked a table full of dishes, waiting for him to come home for dinner.
He walked in, his face cold.
